Back in Black
by Nyx6
Summary: Just because Dean is dressed like a Priest it does not mean he's going to act like one, even if something is trying to turn him into mincemeat - literally. Sometimes it's like he's not even the older brother at all. Good old-fashioned investigation fic
1. Back in Black

Okay so here it is. The first chapter of the new one. I've just hit chapter ten in my writing, so I'm thinking maybe two or three chapters a week would be a good posting-pace until I've completely finished it! Please give me feedback and let me know what you think!

* * *

**Back in Black**.

Their footsteps echoed loudly around the corridor, tall arched ceilings bouncing the sound back at them as three pairs of shoes plodded out-of-time across the flagstone floor.

The small man in front of them was walking fast, scurrying almost, yet the solid tread of the two figures behind him kept up at almost half the speed, listening with vague interest to the historical narrative being related back to them in enthusiastic tones,

"…one of the stones in the west wing of the girls' school is said to have been part of the foundations of Glastonbury Abbey before they were destroyed by fire in 1184…the Bishop himself has visited twice as a guest of Father Charles…oldest structure in the city…"

The latter was the easiest fact to believe, flanked as they were on all sides by thick stone walls, tall Cathedral windows and austere paintings of former men of the cloth, glowering down at passers-by with looks that seemed to say, among other things, _'hands off the silver.'_

"Here we are!" came the chirpy voice from in front of them once more as their guide ground to a halt at the far end of a row of thick wooden doors, this room set half-a-level and four steps up from the others in some sort of deference to authority. It opened with the heavy metallic click of a latch, yet more stone gracing both the interior walls and floor, softened only by a rug that looked both hand-stitched and ancient. Two uncomfortable looking beds, flanked by desks and chairs, a dresser and washstand completed the look, which in terms of sparseness, was obviously going for some sort of record.

A cross hung on the wall between the thin arrow-shaped windows, casting identical beams of sunlight down across the dusty, barren little space.

"Homely," came a sarcastic voice from behind the young Priest who failed to pick up on it, instead turning a broad smile at the newcomers.

"It is indeed."

Silence met his fervour and as two pairs of eyes stared across at him – one genuinely friendly, the other a little more sardonic – he took a deep breath, smiled again and nodded.

"Well in that case I shall leave you to settle in. The staff bathroom is on the next floor down, dinner is at six o'clock in the main hall and the boys should be back from lessons within the hour, although I'm sure Father Charles will introduce you properly at Matins tomorrow morning."

"Can't wait."

Again he met the sarcastic reply with complete oblivion as the taller of the trainees cleared his throat and returned the smile with a nod of gratitude.

"Thank you, Father – ,"

"Matthews."

"Father Matthews. I'm sure we'll be…" slight pause, "…very comfortable here."

"I trust you will."

The silence set in again as the young Priest made to leave, offering one last smile of solidarity before turning and leaving the room, closing the door gently behind them and sighing with gladness as he stepped back into the hall. It was always nice to have new recruits to the cause, especially so young, vibrant and obviously willing to serve the Lord. Yes, he nodded to himself, they would be welcome additions; quiet, respectful, polite…

"What a crap hole."

"Dean."

Dropping his bag onto the floor with a thud, Dean had waited until Father Matthew's footsteps had faded from earshot before un-biting his tongue with a sense of relief. He sat down on the bed heavily, coughing as a cloud of dust billowed up and began to dance in the sunlight.

"I've seen more welcoming crypts,"

"Dean."

Sam's half-snapped, half-exasperated reply came out in a whisper, obviously unsure about proximity and erring on the side of caution at least until they found their feet. Dean snorted,

"Oh, knock it off Sam, with walls these thick people wouldn't hear us if we tried to kill each other in here!"

Sam shrugged the bag off his shoulder onto the comforter, instantly reaching in to pull his beloved laptop out onto the desk to fire her up. He spared his brother a withering glare.

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea."

Dean fixed him a look, mock hurt with plenty of amusement,

"Remember your vows Sam,"

His sing-song tone succeeded in getting the rise he was after, watching as Sam threw the clothes he was carefully unpacking onto the bed in a heap, turning towards his older brother with anger that was fast becoming a whiny-sounding protest – a tone usually reserved for when Dean shoved some outrageous fake I.D into his hands and pushed him towards a reception desk.

"I didn't take any vows! Neither did you," he hissed, punctuating the next sentence slowly and carefully, "We're not real Priests."

"Nope," Dean agreed, drawing a short-lived sigh of relief, "We're Priests-in-training."

Dean – ," Sam stopped short, realising belatedly he was only increasing his brother's amusement and instead turning to continue his unpacking with a groan of disbelief, "This is the worst idea you've ever had."

"Me?" came the indignant reply, "It wasn't my idea."

"Well you were the one that convinced me to go along with it,"

Dean snorted unsympathetically, leaning back against the stone wall and crossing his legs casually,

"Will you stop bitching and relax already?"

"Relax? How am I supposed to relax Dean?" Sam demanded, holding his arms wide, a t-shirt clutched in one out-stretched hand, "Did you even hear Father Matthews? We're expected to be at Matins tomorrow morning. We don't even know what the hell Matins are! And that's before we're left in charge of a dormitory of seven-to-eleven year olds all night."

"They're Bible-bashers Sam," Dean responded lazily, "They'll all be in bed by eight o'clock reading psalms and saying their prayers."

"You hope."

"Trust me."

Sam groaned. Why was that sentence always the beginning of the end? Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to fire off another tirade at his under-whelmed brother only to be interrupted by a tentative tap at the door.

Both men froze instantly, sharing identical looks of alertness.

Climbing from his bed Dean positioned himself quietly behind the door, nodding once to Sam as soon as he was in position. One hand on the latch, Sam waited for the signal and then cautiously poked his head out into the corridor beyond. His sigh of relief told Dean the visitor was no cause for alarm and instantly he took a step back, almost colliding with the figure that bustled in past him, long black habit billowing out behind her.

"Quickly now boys," she began breathlessly, barely giving Sam time to shut the door, "Can't be standing around out there all afternoon."

Dean regarded the woman in front of him in surprise, sharing a dubious look with his brother, both of them silently asking the same question. Dean decided to verbalise it.

"Are you supposed to be here?" he began hesitantly, offering a clueless shrug, "I thought this place was like sexual apartheid or something."

Sister Helena fixed him a look, part disapproving, part amused, folding her arms across her chest but unable to stop the quirk that turned up the corners of her lips.

"Well," she began somewhat flippantly, "I thought in view of the fact that his servants are being murdered in his own house of worship, the Lord might forgive my audacity just this once."

Sam smiled. He loved it when older women got the better of Dean, an event that was rare in any case. Nobody, but nobody – with the exception of himself – could insult Dean's intelligence, actions or character without getting a beating, but from Sister Helena, Ellen and especially Missouri, his older brother simply took it, albeit with a hint of bewilderment playing across his face.

Sister Helena smiled at the sight of it, reaching over to give his arm a comforting pat. Sam cleared his throat,

"So, anything since we last saw you?"

Sister Helena shook her head,

"No. Mercifully it's been quiet of late,"

"Well that's not good, " Dean chipped in as Sam offered the nun a chair, both turning to look at him in surprise, "Because unless this thing just upped and left town – which, by the way, doesn't usually happen – then it's been sitting somewhere re-charging its batteries and waiting for round three,"

Sister Helena sighed, missing the look Sam flashed his brother, a frowning _dude, go easy_ admonition that made Dean roll his eyes,

"Oh dear," she murmured, hand reaching to start thumbing at the rosary looped around her neck, "I'm afraid I'd feared as much, and with the children returned for school as well. How awful."

"Well, whatever it is…" Dean began, crossing to the bed to unzip his bag, drawing Sister's Helena's attention as he began to root around through a variety of clunky-sounding metallic objects. Her eyes widened as he drew out a handgun, ejecting and re-positioning the clip before clicking back the slide to load the cartridge into place – all nice and prepared, "…we'll be ready for it."

Not for the first time that day, Sam rolled his eyes, wondering just when he'd inherited Rambo for a brother. No wonder poor Sister Helena was wide-eyed at the spectacle, he doubted she'd come across many semi-automatics during Eucharist. Forcing a smile, he quickly took the gun from Dean's hand and placed it down on the desk, ignoring the protest that went with it.

"It's going to be fine," he offered. Watching the nun nod slowly, a warm smile slipping across her face once more,

"Bless you both,"

The youngest Winchester shrugged in response, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment and realising that Dean too seemed uncomfortable with the praise. Quickly, he changed tack, his expression darkening in severity as he turned to the older women before them with a sudden sense of purpose,

"But right now we've got bigger problems," he began, sharing a look with Dean and taking a deep breath, "We need to know everything a trainee Priest of four years would know and we need it by six o'clock this evening."

There was a vague pause as Sister Helena took in the request, then, gradually, her lips turned up in a smile once more and she moved across the room quickly to sit down on the edge of the bed, instinctively smoothing her habit out across her knees,

"Well," she breathed, "The Lord loves a challenge. Now, we've got two hours so listen up, don't interrupt and for Heaven's sake start praying. We're going to need all the help we can get."


	2. What Got Them There: Part One

**Two Weeks Earlier; Some Crappy Diner in the Middle of Nowhere.**

"Dude!"

As his brother's childlike tone cut in through hours of careful research, Sam grit his teeth against the rising tide of annoyance, his voice tight as he continued to gaze intently at the screen of his laptop.

"What?"

"Is that guy wearing heels?"

"What guy?" Despite himself, Sam turned to look, casting around the roadside diner in search of the sight that had made his brother's face crinkle in a combination of shock and horror, neither of which were expressions that came naturally for Dean, a man who had pretty literally seen everything.

Except, apparently, a butch-looking waiter with a buzz cut and a pot of coffee stomping around a roadside café in a pink shirt-dress and kitten heels, a cigarette protruding from chapped lips. Dean's gaze was intent with disbelief,

"Think he lost a bet?"

Sam sighed, trying hard to control the twitch of amusement in his lips so that when he turned back, the look he could fix his idiotic brother with was more disapproving than entertained.

"I don't know Dean," he sighed with a long-suffering tone, eyes focussing once more on the text before him, "Why don't you go ask?"

Dean's expression went from shocked to outraged,

"Are you kidding? With a face like this, I'm not taking any chances."

Indignantly he took a bite of burger, barely having started in on it before cramming half a dozen fries in alongside. Sam rolled his eyes.

_So modest, and such an elegant dinner companion too. _

"So," Dean continued around a mouthful of potato, cow and bun, reaching inexplicably for his beer too, "Found anything yet?"

"Yeah," Sam started slowly, eyes gleaning the last piece of information off the screen before shutting down the window and turning to the pile of newspapers beside him. He sifted through them quickly before pulling out the relevant page. Dean peered at it curiously,

"Washington Post huh? Well aren't we are going up in the world."

Sam ignored him,

"Two murders in the last month at Saint Gregory's Roman Catholic School. Both Priests, both found…" he paused, searching for the right word, "…pounded to death on the school grounds."

Dean blinked, swallowing part of his mouthful and sitting forward as if he'd misheard,

"Pounded?"

Sam shrugged,

"That's what it says."

"Not beaten? Attacked?"

"Pounded."

"So you think it's one of ours?" Dean asked sitting back against the booth, wiping his hands on a paper napkin and reaching to drain the remnants of his beer, "Why?"

"Here," leaning across the table, Sam turned the paper round to Dean's angle, running his finger across a line of the print, "The paper quotes someone close to the school as the source of their information. Someone they call Angel."

Dean looked up at him, lost,

"And…you think it is one?"

"Huh?" Sam had already sat back leafing quickly through John's journal. As Dean's question sank in he looked up with a frown, "No. Look – ," This time the Winchester bible was spun in his brother's direction, Sam tapping repeatedly at a footnote scrawled in their father's painfully familiar hand. Dean bent to read it.

_St. Greg's. Angel._

His eyes flickered upwards.

"That it?"

Sam nodded, pulling the journal back and collecting up the scattered papers,

"As far as I can tell."

Throwing back the rest of his drink, Dean let out a sigh, banging the glass bottle down onto the tabletop with a thud.

"Well all right then. Better get going."

He watched without helping as Sam began to shove papers into his bag, grappling with the folds to get the laptop in as well and nearly swiping his unfinished glass of coke onto the floor as he did. Only when he'd managed to jam everything in and close it up however, did his older brother make a move, standing with a groan as he straightened his stiff legs, either constantly screwed up in the footwell of the Impala or under some crappy diner table.

"See you outside Sam," he instructed casually, heading in the direction of the men's room. Sam did as told, standing awkwardly from their table and shouldering the bulk of their research. Crossing the room, head firmly on their new lead, he only just managed to side step the dress-wearing waiter as their paths collided, bringing them to a split-second pause in front of one another. Their momentary eye contact was more than enough time to catch the wink thrown in his direction and the slight incline of the lips around the cigarette as they passed. Swallowing uncertainly, Sam pushed out of the door and didn't look back until he had the bodywork of the Impala pressed against him.

It took only a couple of seconds longer for Dean to appear out of the bathroom, and Sam watched in amazement as his brother went straight up to Mr. Pink and pressed something into his hand. Sam frowned. _What in the hell?_ He waited until his brother was striding across the parking lot towards him before shaking his head in confusion,

"Did you – ," he paused, trying to make sense of what he'd seen, "Did you give him a tip?"

Dean smirked,

"Sort of. I gave him a phone number."

"A phone – ," Sam tailed off in sudden dread, "A phone number?"

"Yep," replied Dean, his shit-eating grin only inspiring more horror as he crossed around the car and unlocked the driver's side door, "Yours."

"What?!" As Sam's voice went shrill with indignity he chanced a look back at the diner, where, sure enough, Mr. Pink was watching from the window with a less-than settling smile.

"And guess what Sam," Dean continued, revelling in his brother's discomfort as he climbed in and started the engine, "The good news is, he's single."

As Pinky waggled stubby fingers at him through the glass, Sam slid quickly into the car, laptop pressed against his chest like a shield, glaring murderously across the seats as his older brother laughed wickedly,

"I am going to kill you."

Predictably, that only made the laughter increase.

* * *

Cruel but had to be done. Anyway, please let me know what you think and thanks for getting this far!

P.S. Ignore the fact I keep changing the synopsis, I always write these things at about two in the morning and am never happy with them!


	3. What Got Them There: Part Two

**Two Days Later: Washington D.C.**

The receptionist at the front desk had told them to take three flights of stairs down, the first left and then two consecutive rights.

They'd done that.

The receptionist _there_ had questioned what on earth the first receptionist had been thinking, and sent them back up one flight of stairs, through two more rights, a left and then another right…

…where a nurse they'd collided with had put them in an elevator that went another two flights down and where, mercifully, they'd finally found the mortuary.

"Gentlemen?" the man at the desk had asked, peering up through thick-rimmed spectacles. Sam cleared his throat, pulling out a badge and watching Dean mirror the movement from the corner of his eye.

"We're with the police department investigating the deaths of Fathers Miner and Bennett, we just need to take a quick look at the bodies if we may."

His tone was firm, no nonsense, daring the man to argue. He did anyway.

"Again? You folks have already been here twice, what more can a dead body tell you people?" before they could answer however, he narrowed his eyes shrewdly, "What did you say your names were?"

"We didn't," Sam smiled, moving swiftly from _obey me_ to _I'm a nice guy_ mode, "Watson and Crick."

Behind him, a flicker of a frown passed across Dean's face, mentally checking every rock band he knew for the surnames and coming up empty. He was impressed, perhaps Sam was a closet rocker after all.

One final check of the badges seemed to do the trick and the little man heaved a sigh and pushed himself away from the desk, waving a weary hand at them to tag along after him down the stark and stretching corridor. Sam moved to follow, falling back slightly as Dean caught him gently by the elbow,

"Hey," he hissed above the sound of their footfalls, "Who're Watson and Crick?"

Sam frowned,

"Huh?"

"You know, those alias', what band are they from dude?"

Sam paused, surprised by the question, his attention diverted as he tried to focus on the task at hand.

"They're not in a band," he whispered back, "They're scientists."

The disgust in his brother's reply was evident,

"Scientists? Sam – ,"

"What? They found the DNA double helix Dean, they won the Nobel prize."

"Yeah, but, come on! Freakin' scientists?" As Sam continued to stare across at him, a look of cluelessness etched across his face, Dean threw up his hands in exasperation and stomped past like a sulking child, his tone sullen too "You are _never_ picking our names again."

_Fine._

By the time they got into the mortuary, the assistant was already busy pulling open one of the drawers, scanning the rest of the assorted numbers for the other. Digging into his pockets Sam pulled out a pair of disposable gloves, slipping them on effortlessly and sharing a glance with Dean as he bent forward to lift up the cover before them.

The paper hadn't been lying. Pounded was about the most accurate description for what had happened to the man, and as Dean moved to lift the sheet on the other, his intake of breath was enough to tell him that it was a scene mirrored. Sam swallowed,

"My God…"

"Not sure he's the right person to call," the assistant chipped in with a flicker of morbid amusement before nodding to the body inches from Sam's hand, "Didn't do either of them much good."

Sam shot him a withering glare, only looking away when Dean bent towards the tray in closer inspection,

"What's that?" he asked, singling out a small fragment of something and then looking up in a silent demand that his brother fish it out for him to look at. Sam pulled a vaguely indignant face before finally relenting, pushing his fingers into the bloody mess of corpse and trying not to think about how cold and solid it felt.

He pulled out the sliver carefully, rolling it down onto his open palm so that they could both get a better look. He frowned in surprise,

"Is that a piece of stone?"

He glanced up towards the assistant standing against the wall with his arms folded, taking in the double nod and the nonchalance of the reply,

"Yep," he filled in, "Sandstone to be exact. Same type as at St. Greg's where they were killed. What do you call them…" he paused momentarily, trying to conjure a word into his head before abruptly snapping his fingers, "…opportunistic murders. Killer sees a rock lying around and bang. Dead."

Dean snorted. When was anything ever that simple? Beside him, it was Sam's turn to frown down at the body.

"Well if that's the case, why do these look like finger imprints?"

Dean peered forward to look. Sure enough, the marks across the body – especially around the throat where the victim had obviously been strangled – looked like fingerprints, and, for that matter knuckle prints, albeit distended and larger than a human hand. Something with stone hands?

He looked up at Sam, sharing his confusion and feeling it echoed. Finally however, the silence was broken by the sound of the phone ringing back at the reception desk, and the following curse of the assistant.

"Damn," he shot them a beady-eyed look, "You fellas gonna be all right here for five minutes?"

Dean nodded, forcing a smile,

"Sure. We'll make our own fun."

"Hmm."

Giving them one last look, the assistant turned and shuffled from the room, Dean turning to look at Sam the instant the doors swung shut behind him.

"So what? We're looking for the thing from the Fantastic Four now?"

Sam ignored the sarcasm,

"I don't know."

"This is weird."

"Yeah."

As a wave of silence rose between them, Dean abruptly stepped forward, flicking the cover back over the first body and sliding the tray back firmly. Sam watched him, knowing his brother was suddenly into _next_ mode, and also knowing what that meant.

"Check out St. Gregory's?" Sam pre-empted, more of a statement than a question. Dean smiled, pulling off his rubber gloves and tossing them disdainfully into the bin.

"Are you kidding me? A convent school? Full of girls denied the opposite sex? Girls in uniform?" he shook his head in disbelief, his luck finally on the up, "Sammy, I'm already there."

* * *

Short but sweet with this one. Well…not so sweet as it happens, but, you know!

I'll see about putting another up tomorrow since this is a shorty!

Review and I'll love you forever.


	4. What Got Them There: Part Three

**Later That Day: Saint Gregory's.**

"Damn it Sam!" Dean hissed in annoyance, flashlight playing across the gilded sign suspended beside the large double entrance doors, "I thought you said this was a girls' school."

"I said it was a _mixed_ school Dean," Sam replied in hushed tones, crouched low against the side of the building and playing into the shadows, "Father Miner and Father Bennett worked in the _boys_ school. The girls' buildings are across the road…with the nuns," his tone hitched slightly in irritation, "Now are you coming or not?"

"Aw man," his voice quiet and petulant against the silence of the night, Dean took one last look at the board before him and heaved a sigh before turning to follow his brother towards the thick black cover of the high stone walls surrounded by borders and tall, clipped hedges.

_Saint Gregory's Roman Catholic School._

_Day and Boarding._

_Boys 7 – 18_

Damn and double damn.

St. Gregory's was like a fortress, ringed with Castle keep-style ramparts that protected the various Chapels, dormitories, grounds and grand halls within. Tall and imposing structures rose at every turn, adorned with colossal stained glass windows and a sense of opulence that made Tsarist Russia seem almost minimalist in comparison.

No wonder they wanted to keep people out. It was hard to see the Church as an organisation needing charity when faced with so much grandeur.

Getting in had been no picnic either, requiring the lowest wall they could find, the hood of the Impala – which had not pleased Dean – several fairly risky handholds and then a less than reliable fifteen foot drop in the pitch black before they'd finally touched down on Holy ground. If they didn't find anything after all that, much less if Dean found any footprints on his car, he was going to need to kill something anyway. Perhaps wisely, Sam kept quiet.

Their plan of action had been decided that afternoon back at the motel, assisted by Sam's scribbled notes and an internet-provided aerial map of the school grounds that they'd spread out underneath the continual flickering of the one substandard light bulb the room had possessed.

Father Miner had been killed in his room which was right up in the boys dormitories and by no means easily accessible, Father Bennett however had been killed in a back room of the Chapel, a building always open to the teachers and pupils alike for the provision of twenty-four hour solace – which was probably just as well considering the circumstances, and practically a gift to Sam and Dean. The Chapel was also the easiest structure to spot amongst the myriad of rooftops and doorways, central in location, looming large and imposing above the carefully maintained grounds and framed by an intricate façade of arches, pillars and the most stunning spider-web stained glass window either of them had ever seen.

Whoever was in charge of school fees was obviously doing something right.

Dean let out a low whistle.

"Nice place."

"You can sightsee later," Sam responded quickly, ducking to a crouch beside the wall and glancing up as his older brother lent over him to scan the open space beyond. As the adrenaline began to course through his veins, Sam's voice took on an element of breathless anticipation, "Anything?"

Dean shook his head,

"No," placing a hand between Sam's shoulder blades he took one last look and then pushed against him gently, eyes constantly searching the horizon for movement, "Go."

Sam didn't need telling twice, practically exploding from the ground across the open expanse of lawn that lay between them and their destination, a dark shadow flitting through the black before emerging into the lights that illuminated the Chapel steps, taking them two at a time before sliding quickly back into the gloom behind one of the pillars.

Dean watched him carefully, squinting as the brightness of the lighting and darkness of the shadows combined to turn his brother from a clearly defined figure to the merest suggestion of movement, only just managing to catch the hand that waved for him to follow seconds later and taking off after it, as instinctively trusting of Sam's instructions as his brother had been of his.

As it turned out however, what might or might not have also been crossing the quad late at night was not their biggest concern, because the moment Dean's foot touched the top step – the home straight – the Chapel doors abruptly swung open, revealing a long line of tiny choir boys in full regalia and walking all Noah's Ark in pairs behind a scowling, grey-bearded Priest clutching a hymn book to his robes and trying to keep them in some semblance of order.

Dean stood statue-like for a second, wildly debating his options and realising just as quickly that he had none. As good as his acting skills were, even he couldn't deny that young men in battered leather jackets were not exactly common-place in the Roman Catholic world – particularly on the steps to a Private Chapel in the dead of night. He felt Sam's eyes on him without needing to look his way, both sharing a solitary thought.

_Crap._

It was one they shared all-too often.

…As was the intake of breath they both took as their surroundings suddenly and without warning plunged into complete darkness around them.

A power-cut?

Dean didn't hang around to find-out, practically vaulting the last step and stumbling forward in the gloom until he felt Sam grab hold of his jacket and pull him swiftly into cover, his tone both relieved and worried,

"Did they see you?"

Dean pulled free of the grasp, shaking his head,

"I don't think so," he replied before pausing and trying to keep the hitch of fright out of his voice, "Close call though, huh? Maybe there is a God after all."

Even in the darkness he could see that Sam remained unamused.

Back on the steps, the little line of choirboys began to giggle in excitement at the unexpected turn of events, someone letting out a very un-Holy 'whoopee' before the voice of their Priest boomed at them through the darkness, bad temper very much in evidence.

"That's enough!" he snapped, "There's no need for silliness. In a moment the generator will – ,"

Abruptly the lights whirred back into action once more, blinding everyone with such ferocity that an audible groan rose up from the group, again met with condemnation by Father Grouch.

"Pull yourselves together! Really, I've never heard such nonsense. You should be ashamed," he stood hands-on-hips facing his small gathering, literally feet from where Sam and Dean were concealed, although thankfully oblivious to their presence, "Now. Back to your rooms. All of you. Quickly."

The boys did as told, heads hung low against the scornful glare of their tutor as they scuttled down the steps like lemmings and across the quad towards the other buildings. Each one of them silent. The Priest watched them go like a hawk, waiting until the last one had faded from view before letting his arms drop to his sides and shaking his head,

"Honestly," he hissed to himself before peering up into the cloudy night sky as if for the strength to continue. Whether he received it or not though was to remain unknown, as after a momentary pause he heaved a final sigh and headed off down the steps, into the darkness and away.

The Chapel inside was just as grand as outside – more so, even. The brilliance of the building's vaulted ceiling and sheer immensity of its proportions heightened by the warm glow of candlelight on stone, wood and the gold that adorned the various depictions, hangings and alter dressings. It took a second for Sam and Dean to adjust their eyes as they stepped in out of the harsh glare of the artificial lights, bitter evening chill turning into a warmth infused with the scent of burning as their footsteps sounded loudly against the empty expanse opening out in front of them.

Sam stood, mildly awed by the sight, reminded suddenly of a trip to New York he'd once taken with Jess, and how he'd watched her stand in Grace Church and just stare upwards in wonder at the style of it all, feeling about a million miles away from the bustle on the streets just outside the door. He was by no means traditionally religious himself, not a church-goer although that wasn't to say he didn't have his own beliefs, but there was no denying that something about Churches, Chapels and religious architecture inspired at the very least a respectful silence.

"Hey Sam?" _Or maybe not_, he sighed, as the moment was promptly broken by Dean's familiar tone, scathing, irritated and itching for action, "You waiting for the guided tour or something? Come on dude."

Heaving a long-suffering sigh, Sam rolled his eyes and set off down the aisle, plodding past his brother with a barely audible mutter,

"Jerk."

Dean heard it, the corners of his mouth twitching up in amusement at the sudden sullenness.

"Bi – ," he half-replied before stopping dead under an alabaster statuette of the Virgin Mary and swallowing hesitantly, "…Jerk."

Better to be safe than sorry…just this once....

The spot were Father Bennett had been found was apart from the main body of The Chapel, in the Sacristy, a room set-back for the Priests to meet and vest before services, modest, functional and, with the help of Sam's lock-picking skills, by no means off limits.

Flipping on the lights, Dean quickly ducked under the police tape, holding it up for Sam to follow before shutting the door back behind them. Obviously – and probably to the general displeasure of the Priests – the police still had work to do, which meant that the evidence was still largely intact. Including the dry but dark blood stains, and the rupturing of the floor itself, flagstones buckling upwards off the ground, others smashed into almost…footprint-type shapes.

Sam shared a hesitant look with Dean, bending down closer to it and following the trail towards a distinctly human-shaped hole smashed into the outer wall and temporarily covered from both the elements and prying eyes by a sheet of board. Whatever it was, it had either smashed its way in or out. Possibly both. Sam swallowed uncertainly,

"Maybe the thing from the Fantastic Four isn't such a crazy theory after all," he suggested slowly, voice quiet. Dean pulled a face,

"What? Sam, you don't seriously think – ,"

"I don't know what to think," came the truthful reply, "But from everything we've seen I wouldn't rule out some kind of…" he paused, the words seeming too Lord of the Rings even for his open mind, "…rock monster."

As the EMF meter continued to sit silently in Dean's hand, the older sighed heavily, knowing what came next and hating every minute of it.

"Research?"

"Yep."

Great. All that effort and not a single dead thing to show for it. Just great. Taking a deep breath, Dean pointed the semi automatic –safety on – in Sam's vague direction, using it for added emphasis as he spoke, voice low with characteristic _I'm-not-happy_-gruffness,

"Fine. But if I find so much as one footprint on the hood of my car, research or no research I'm coming back here and so help me God I am hunting down that sorry, stony-assed, son of a – ,"

"Dean Winchester hold your tongue!"

As another voice cut across the room, sharp, clear and obviously displeased, both men jumped, wheeling around wide-eyed as Dean's hands fumbled for a secure grip on his gun.

He was glad he kept it lowered.

Standing before them, arms hanging at her sides against the thick black material of a habit, stood a nun, face screwed into a scowl but eyes sparkling in welcome. She took a deep, shaking, breath, demeanour fading slightly as she stepped forward with her hands clasped excitedly,

"Boys," she breathed, seeming suddenly emotional, "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me."

Dean shared a look with his brother, conveying one prominent thought that Sam desperately hoped he would consider revising before asking out loud, _what the hell? _Luckily for all of them, he did.

"And you are?"

"My name is Sister Helena," came the reply, calmer and more composed, her anticipation only betrayed by the flash of sharpness that followed, "But you might know me best as your father did," they paused in shock, the very mention of John Winchester enough to make both throats catch in emotion.

"I'm Angel…and I need your help."

* * *

There you go, I did promise after all!

Thank you to my lovely reviewers! I am so grateful for your feedback!

I'm trying something a little bit different with this one, I really want it to feel like an episode, so we're going heavy on the mystery this time with total shoot-em-up chaos at the end! Anyway, as always, let me know what you think, and, oh, in case anyone's interested…

…IT'S SNOWING!


	5. What Got Them There: Part Four

**Even **_**Later**_** That Day; St. Gregory's.**

"You?" Dean spluttered in disbelief as a wave of silence swept through the sacristy. His eyes gave her a none-too-subtle once over, taking in a face of later years, crows feet around still-bright eyes and laughter lines creasing in at the corners of her mouth. She was anything but threatening, yet her attire, her demeanour and the nature of their meeting all gave her an unsettling element of uncertainty. She was still an unknown, "You're Angel?"

She gazed back at him passively, her tone soft,

"And you are John's boys," it wasn't a question, neither was what followed, "I knew you would come."

As Dean opened and shut his mouth distinctly goldfish-like, Sam frowned deeply, his brows knitting together as he stepped forward intrigued.

"How?" he asked on his brother's behalf. The question awarded him a genuine smile in response,

"I knew if you were anything like your father you would spot my clue in the paper."

"Clue?" Dean repeated, screwing up his face in confusion, "What_, Angel_?"

As Sister Helena nodded, Sam seemed to catch on, eyes widening in sudden understanding,

"You told the papers about the murders so you could get us here."

His turn to pose a question without needing an answer, and for the first time Sister Helena seemed hesitant, ashamed even, her gaze dropping slowly as her hands rose unconsciously to finger at the rosary draped about her neck,

"I…" she paused, "…I didn't know how else to get you here. I haven't been in contact with your father for so very long…"

"Yeah," Dean put in quickly, the abrupt confidence back once more, this time tinged with a hint of annoyance at the repeated mention of John and the inevitable surge of emotion it triggered, "When was that exactly?"

Sam winced slightly at the curt, almost sarcastic tone, but if Sister Helena noticed it then she said nothing, instead blowing out a long breath as she thought back carefully,

"Goodness, it must have been about ten years ago now. Madison, Ohio. Demonic possession," the simplicity of the facts she listed surprised them, and they exchanged a glance, Sam's frown deepening again,

"You called him for help?"

"Me? No, no. Not me. I was more of an…unsuspecting passer-by," she shook her head sadly at the memory, "Poor girl, she was pretty beaten up when John finally got that thing out of her. I held her hand as she died."

Silence filled the room, neither brother knowing quite what to say. Sister Helena however didn't seem to need any words of comfort, looking up at them again, composed,

"But even good can come from such terrible evil. For one thing it finally made me decide to give up my life to God – which was a decision I'd been struggling with for months – and secondly it introduced me to your father. For which I'll always be eternally grateful."

She didn't ask after him, nor did she pry, either knowing his previous desire for secrecy or else reading the truth from their expressions. She continued quietly,

"Your father has done a great deal for both me and people in need over the years. And in my own way I like to think I helped him too."

Instantly Dean's expression turned into a frown,

"How?"

"Counsel," she replied simply, "But I'm afraid the contents are strictly held between myself, your father and the Lord."

Dean rolled his eyes, muttering something whispered under his breath. _Un-freaking-believable_. Sister Helena's gaze narrowed in vague amusement,

"I didn't see you complaining when I helped you out."

"Huh?" she wasn't sure if the expression that stared back was doubt or horror, "Helped us – ,"

"Yes," she replied simply, "On the steps, just now."

"You turned the lights off?" asked Sam, impressed. Sister Helena shrugged nonchalantly,

"I might have said a quick prayer on your behalf…and then, possibly, tripped a switch."

Both men blinked at her in astonishment and she smiled, watching Sam compose himself once more.

"So, how exactly do you need our help?"

He heard Dean snort softly behind him, turning to find his older brother indicating the chaos of the crime scene.

"Take a wild guess genius."

"I'm afraid Dean is right," Sister Helena replied, eyes flickering briefly to one of the blood stains and then away again, her face paling for a moment before she steeled herself, "What has happened here is…well…" she paused as she searched for the right words, looking up into the two intent faces before her, "…unnatural."

Dean grinned in grim amusement, the sheer scale of understatement immense,

"You're telling me," he breathed, letting out a long breath as his eyes traced around the room again. Sam ran a tongue across his lips, suddenly sensing that perhaps the library was not the best place to start his research after all,

"Sister Helena," he began, hands out straight before him in a silent _think carefully_ gesture, "What can you tell us about Father Miner and Father Bennett? Do you know anything about what happened to them?"

Her expression saddened once more,

"Not much I'm afraid, for all I've tried. As soon as I thought one of you might be coming here I started to gather together what I could..."

Dean stared across at her expectantly,

"And?"

"Well, I'm sorry to say that at this point I still don't know much more than you do. All I do know is that about a month ago something broke down Father Miner's door in the middle of the night and…" she paused to cross herself, "…killed him, and then returned a week ago and did the same to poor Father Bennett. But as to who, or why – ," she stopped short, offering up her hands in a helpless shrug. _I just don't know._

"Did either of them have any enemies?" Sam asked, "Any reason someone might have targeted them?"

Behind them, suddenly done with the conversation, Dean turned and headed for the boarded-up hole in the wall, running a thumb across the screws securing it in place and then holding a hand out towards his brother, waggling his fingers,

"Penknife," he commanded. Sam's attention turned back to Sister Helena as he fished it out of his pocket.

"No, not at all," the older woman replied, the sadness returning to her face, "As far as I was aware both were extremely professional, well-liked young men. Father Miner had just been given his first solo posting at a Church in Chicago, and Father Bennett had been chosen from over fifty candidates for a visit to the Vatican in the spring. Both had so much to live for."

Behind them, carefully unscrewing the board from the wall, Dean let out another snort,

"People have been killed for a lot less," and he was right too, although he seemed to discard the sentence the moment it was out, instead focussing on his handy-work as the plasterboard lurched forward, released, "Sam,"

His brother was beside him in a second, pre-empting the request and helping to support its weight as together they pried it from the wall and set it down on the floor. A sudden rush of cold air poured in from outside, hitting them about the faces like an angry slap, clutching at their chests with icy fingers. Sister Helena stepped closer with curiosity, unconsciously pulling her arms in about herself as she shivered from the chill.

Pulling free his flashlight, Dean shone the beam of light out across the ground beyond, following the trail of footsteps that pressed across the damp grass. Ducking to avoid the jutting masonry, he stepped out to follow them, Sam one pace behind. Just like inside, the large flat footprints sank deep into the ground, a testament to their quarry's obvious mass, big strides crossing the grass quickly. Police tape ringed the scene here too, but instead of trailing off into the darkness, it stopped abruptly in front of them, and with good reason.

The footprints had vanished and not only that, they had shrunk too, until they were too small to leave any impression upon the ground. Killing the trail dead.

Dean's brow furrowed and he peered up at his brother from where he was crouched on the ground. _What the hell?_ They were looking for a shrinking rock monster now? Sam's expression echoed his own.

"I think we're going to need more than a library for this one," Dean muttered slowly, gazing up to gauge his younger brother's reaction as the torchlight played over the missing tracks. He stood suddenly, turning and heading back into the sacristy where Sister Helena waited on the threshold watching them carefully, "Can you get us in here?" he asked, getting straight to the point. She blinked at him, surprised but needing no more explanation.

"…I'll need a week or so."

Dean nodded, turning to his brother with a smile. _Done._

"Time to dust off your clerical collar Sammy," he chirped, as behind them Sister Helena came to the slow realisation that perhaps it wasn't the first time they had impersonated men of the cloth. Sam tried hard to ignore her expression. Dean was still grinning.

"Looks like we're back in black."

* * *

And that's the last of the 'flashback' chapters. For the sake of chronology I'm going to repost the first chapter again next and then tomorrow I'll give you another brand-new installment.

In real time I'm on the last chapter, so I can now start posting almost nightly if that's what people would like. Anyway, I'll stop rambling now!

I'm loving the reviews, so thank you to everyone for encouraging me along and giving your feedback. It's always nice to know what people think, especially if they're enjoying it.

But right now the snow has stopped, the sun is out and I'm off to walk the dog!


	6. Back in Black Repeated

**Back in Black**.

Their footsteps echoed loudly around the corridor, tall arched ceilings bouncing the sound back at them as three pairs of shoes plodded out-of-time across the flagstone floor.

The small man in front of them was walking fast, scurrying almost, yet the solid tread of the two figures behind him kept up at almost half the speed, listening with vague interest to the historical narrative being related back to them in enthusiastic tones,

"…one of the stones in the west wing of the girls' school is said to have been part of the foundations of Glastonbury Abbey before they were destroyed by fire in 1184…Cardinal Roth himself has visited twice as a guest of the Bishop…oldest structure in the city…"

The latter was the easiest fact to believe, flanked as they were on all sides by thick stone walls, tall Cathedral windows and austere paintings of former men of the cloth, glowering down at passers-by with looks that seemed to say, among other things, _'hands off the silver.'_

"Here we are!" came the chirpy voice from in front of them once more as their guide ground to a halt at the far end of a row of thick wooden doors, this room set half-a-level and four steps up from the others in some sort of deference to authority. It opened with the heavy metallic click of a latch, yet more stone gracing both the interior walls and floor, softened only by a rug that looked both hand-stitched and ancient. Two uncomfortable looking beds, flanked by desks and chairs, a dresser and washstand completed the look, which in terms of sparseness, was obviously going for some sort of record.

A cross hung on the wall between the thin arrow-shaped windows, casting identical beams of sunlight down across the dusty, barren little space.

"Homely," came a sarcastic voice from behind the young Priest who failed to pick up on it, instead turning a broad smile at the newcomers.

"It is indeed."

Silence met his fervour and as two pairs of eyes stared across at him – one genuinely friendly, the other a little more sardonic – he took a deep breath, smiled again and nodded.

"Well in that case I shall leave you to settle in. The staff bathroom is on the next floor down, dinner is at six o'clock in the main hall and the boys should be back from lessons within the hour, although I'm sure Father McCauley will introduce you properly at Matins tomorrow morning."

"Can't wait."

Again he met the sarcastic reply with complete oblivion as the taller of the trainees cleared his throat and returned the smile with a nod of gratitude.

"Thank you, Father – ,"

"Matthews."

"Father Matthews. I'm sure we'll be…" slight pause, "…very comfortable here."

"I trust you will."

The silence set in again as the young Priest made to leave, offering one last smile of solidarity before turning and leaving the room, closing the door gently behind them and sighing with gladness as he stepped back into the hall. It was always nice to have new recruits to the cause, especially so young, vibrant and obviously willing to serve the Lord. Yes, he nodded to himself, they would be welcome additions; quiet, respectful, polite…

"What a crap hole."

"Dean."

Dropping his bag onto the floor with a thud, Dean had waited until Father Matthew's footsteps had faded from earshot before un-biting his tongue with a sense of relief. He sat down on the bed heavily, coughing as a cloud of dust billowed up and began to dance in the sunlight.

"I've seen crypts more lived in than this place,"

"Dean."

Sam's half-snapped, half-exasperated reply came out in a whisper, obviously unsure about proximity and erring on the side of caution at least until they found their feet. Dean snorted,

"Oh, knock it off Sam, with walls these thick people wouldn't hear us if we tried to kill each other in here!"

Sam shrugged the bag off his shoulder onto the comforter, instantly reaching in to pull his beloved laptop out onto the desk to fire her up. He spared his brother a withering glare.

"Maybe that's not such a bad idea."

Dean fixed him a look, mock hurt with plenty of amusement,

"Remember your vows Sam,"

His sing-song tone succeeded in getting the rise he was after, watching as Sam threw the clothes he was carefully unpacking onto the bed in a heap, turning towards his older brother with anger that was fast becoming a whiny-sounding protest – a tone usually reserved for when Dean shoved some outrageous fake I.D into his hands and pushed him towards a reception desk.

"I didn't take any vows! Neither did you," he hissed, punctuating the next sentence slowly and carefully, "We're not real Priests."

"Nope," Dean agreed, drawing a short-lived sigh of relief, "We're Priests-in-training."

Dean – ," Sam stopped short, realising belatedly he was only increasing his brother's amusement and instead turning to continue his unpacking with a groan of disbelief, "This is the worst idea you've ever had."

"Me?" came the indignant reply, "It wasn't my idea."

"Well you were the one that convinced me to go along with it,"

Dean snorted unsympathetically, leaning back against the stone wall and crossing his legs casually,

"Will you stop bitching and relax already?"

"Relax? How am I supposed to relax Dean?" Sam demanded, holding his arms wide, a t-shirt clutched in one out-stretched hand, "Did you even hear Father Matthews? We're expected to be at Matins tomorrow morning. We don't even know what the hell Matins are! And that's before we're left in charge of a dormitory of seven-to-eleven year olds all night."

"They're Bible-bashers Sam," Dean responded lazily, "They'll all be in bed by eight o'clock reading psalms and saying their prayers."

"You hope."

"Trust me."

Sam groaned. Why was that sentence always the beginning of the end? Shaking his head, he opened his mouth to fire off another tirade at his under-whelmed brother only to be interrupted by a tentative tap at the door.

Both men froze instantly, sharing identical looks of alertness.

Climbing from his bed Dean positioned himself quietly behind the door, nodding once to Sam as soon as he was in position. One hand on the latch, Sam waited for the signal and then cautiously poked his head out into the corridor beyond. His sigh of relief told Dean the visitor was no cause for alarm and instantly he took a step back, almost colliding with the figure that bustled in past him, long black habit billowing out behind her.

"Quickly now boys," she began breathlessly, barely giving Sam time to shut the door, "Can't be standing around out there all afternoon."

Dean regarded the woman in front of him in surprise, sharing a dubious look with his brother, both of them silently asking the same question. Dean decided to verbalise it.

"Are you supposed to be here?" he began hesitantly, offering a clueless shrug, "I thought this place was like sexual apartheid or something."

Sister Helena fixed him a look, part disapproving, part amused, folding her arms across her chest but unable to stop the quirk that turned up the corners of her lips.

"Well," she began somewhat flippantly, "I thought in view of the fact that his servants are being murdered in his own house of worship, the Lord might forgive my audacity just this once."

Sam smiled. He loved it when older women got the better of Dean, an event that was rare in itself. Nobody, but nobody – with the exception of himself – could insult Dean's intelligence, actions or character without getting a beating, but from Sister Helena, Ellen and especially Missouri, his older brother simply took it, albeit with a hint of bewilderment playing across his face.

Sister Helena smiled at the sight of it, reaching over to give his arm a comforting pat. Sam cleared his throat,

"So, anything since we last saw you?"

Sister Helena shook her head,

"No. Mercifully it's been quiet of late,"

"Well that's not good, " Dean chipped in as Sam offered the nun a chair, both turning to look at him in surprise, "Because unless this thing just upped and left town – which, by the way, doesn't usually happen – then it's been sitting somewhere re-charging its batteries and waiting for round three,"

Sister Helena sighed, missing the look Sam flashed his brother, a frowning _dude, go easy_ admonition that made Dean roll his eyes,

"Oh dear," she murmured, hand reaching to start thumbing at the rosary looped around her neck, "I'm afraid I'd feared as much, and with the children returned for term as well. How awful."

"Well, whatever it is…" Dean began, crossing to the bed to unzip his bag, drawing Sister's Helena's attention as he began to root around through a variety of clunky-sounding metallic objects. Her eyes widened as he drew out a handgun, ejecting and re-positioning the clip before clicking back the slide to load the cartridge into place – all nice and prepared, "…we'll be ready for it."

Not for the first time that day, Sam rolled his eyes, wondering just when he'd inherited Rambo for a brother. No wonder poor Sister Helena was wide-eyed at the spectacle, he doubted she'd come across many semi-automatics during Eucharist. Forcing a smile, he quickly took the gun from Dean's hand and placed it down on the desk, ignoring the protest that went with it.

"It's going to be fine," he offered. Watching the nun nod slowly, a warm smile slipping across her face once more,

"Bless you both,"

The youngest Winchester shrugged in response, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment and realising that Dean too seemed uncomfortable with the praise. Quickly, he changed tack, his expression darkening in severity as he turned to the older women before them with a sudden sense of purpose,

"But right now we've got bigger problems," he began, sharing a look with Dean and taking a deep breath, "We need to know everything a trainee Priest of four years would know and we need it by six o'clock this evening."

There was a vague pause as Sister Helena took in the request, then, gradually, her lips turned up in a smile once more and she moved across the room quickly to sit down on the edge of the bed, instinctively smoothing her habit out across her knees,

"Well," she breathed, "The Lord loves a challenge. Now, we've got two hours so listen up, don't interrupt and for Heaven's sake start praying. We're going to need all the help we can get."


	7. Amen to That

**Amen To That.**

At six o'clock as promised, a bell had rung somewhere within the cavernous expanse of the school and with the sort of mindless obedience that sent a shiver down Dean's spine, pupils and Priests had en masse started to head towards it. There were hundreds of them, uniformed boys from seven to eighteen marching towards the dining hall like herds of cattle, black-robed Fathers dotted in amongst them heading the same way. Good or not, dinner was obviously a communal event.

It was the silence that really got Dean however. No one spoke. The boys didn't shout at each other, no one ran or pushed past, nobody even tried shove friends off the paths into the hedges – which was something he and Sam _still_ did and they were in their twenties. The behaviour was frighteningly good.

"What is this place, Zombie High?" Dean muttered low under his breath, leaning in towards Sam as they joined the steady stream sweeping along the path. Sam cleared his throat,

"Dean."

"Come on dude," his brother shot back, lifting his arm as a small boy of about seven brushed against him, not even looking up, eyes forward, "This is seriously freaky!"

"Well," Sam hissed back out of the corner of his mouth, "Maybe not all teenage boys spend their school days trying to charm their way into their teachers' pants."

It was a definite dig but unfortunately it fell far short of the mark, as instead Dean looked up and into the suddenly grinning face of Father Matthews, materialising out of the sea of uniforms with an enthusiastic wave in their direction,

"I can see why," he murmured, spinning his head back with a false smile as the small man arrived in front of them, "Hey, Matthew. How's it going?"

The smaller man faltered,

"It's – err, it's _Father_ Mat_thews_," he corrected. Sam smiled at the blank look Dean gave him back.

"Right." _And?_

"Err..." As was becoming customary when it came to Dean's abrasiveness, Sam quickly stepped into the breach, smoothing over the smaller man's confusion with a genuinely friendly expression, "We didn't realise there were so many pupils at St. Gregory's. Does everyone eat together?"

"Oh yes," Matthews nodded as they all began to follow the stream along once more, "Every evening at six o'clock sharp. A family, which is what we are."

"Like the Waltons," Dean interjected with a grin.

"Well…" Matthews paused uncertainly, "…I…suppose…"

Sam shot his brother a look, trying and failing to keep his own amusement in check and receiving only a wider smirk for his troubles. Sam cleared his throat smothering a snort of laughter and Matthews peered back at him, concerned.

"It's nothing," Sam assured and then abruptly both his and Dean's enjoyment waned as they stepped in through a large pair of double doors and into the most amazing-looking dining hall they'd ever seen. Seriously. The place was palatial and both had to pinch themselves to be reminded of the fact that they were, in fact, still in the state of Washington and not some medieval realm.

Long tables ran the length of the hall, with benches positioned alongside. All across the room boys were sat beside one another, quietly or talking in hushed whispers, waiting for everyone else to start. It was a long way from the school cafeterias Sam and Dean had grown up with, and as graduates of conveyer-belt schooling they'd been through enough to know.

Quickly, Dean sneaked a glance at the ceiling, surprised to find it completely free of food stains. Granted the high vaults and epic proportions made lodging anything up there a fairly major ask, but it didn't seem like anyone was even _contemplating_ it. Where was the rebellion? Clearly, these kids needed him.

The Priests ate at a top table like overseers, and as Sam and Dean took seats beside Father Matthews they got their first look at their fellow faculty members, trying to put names to faces with the sketchy details Sister Helena had provided them with earlier. One face however, needed no introduction. Father Grouch, or, as Sister Helena had informed them, Father Charles, St. Gregory's Head Honcho and a fact he left in little doubt as he stepped towards the central chair and waited for everybody to rise before bidding them to sit once more with the palm of his hand.

Dean rolled his eyes in disbelief, no sooner having stood up – reluctantly – than having to follow everyone's lead and sit back down again. Pointless, not that he dared look putout for long with the attention of everyone else at the table firmly turned in the direction of the newcomers. Father Matthews, as their semi-self-appointed guide, took the liberty of making introductions,

"Fathers," he began, with the warm over-enthusiasm Dean was beginning to resent, "I'd like you all to welcome Dean and Sam to our family. They both come highly recommended by Sister Helena and have gladly stepped into the breach to help us with our…" he paused and suddenly reddened in awkwardness, "…under-staffing situation."

By which he meant bloodbath. Dean and Sam nodded their greetings.

"So," began a man sitting opposite them, dark skin flowing beautifully into the black Priest's attire and leaning heavily on an African accent as he spoke, "You are both fourth-year students?"

This man too needed no formal introduction. Father Gulla, formerly of Rwanda and, although she'd not said it in so many words, Sister Helena's prime candidate for involvement in the 'rock monster' murders. Father Gulla, as she had put it, was well-educated, well-travelled and was well known across the school for his collection of 'oddities,' little trinkets and novelties gathered from the variety of cultures he had studied on his travels. Compared to the rest of the staff he was pretty unique, and when something made of stone was smashing the remainder of the faculty to smithereens, unique was something that tended to set off alarm bells. Sam smiled back,

"That's right."

"Where were you before this?"

"Pennsylvania," came the well-rehearsed reply, earning a nod as Gulla turned next to Dean.

"And you?"

"An Inner City school in New York,"

Sister Helena had provided them with the cover-stories, surprised and probably vaguely alarmed by how quickly the pair had moulded to them and finalised the details, bit by bit realising that when it came to subversion and infiltration, Sam and Dean were quite probably light-years ahead of her. Father Gulla seemed impressed by Dean's response,

"A noble posting."

The hunter smiled back, sarcasm no more subdued than usual despite the severity of their surroundings,

"Just call me Whoopi Goldberg," he chirped brightly, "Sister Act two."

Sam coughed awkwardly as a sea of bemused faces stared back at his brother. Finally Father Gulla decided to risk another question, expression still open and pleasant,

"We heard great things about you from Sister Helena," he began, filling them both with an instant sense of inadequacy, "How is it that you know her?"

"She's my Godmother," Sam smiled, "She's known Dean since we started our training together."

Beside him Dean nodded in agreement, hamming up his part as he clamped a hand to his chest and sucked in an emotional breath,

"She's been such a source of comfort to us both," he said, turning to gaze at Sam with shimmering eyes, nearly breaking character at his brother's _what the hell_ expression, "God bless her."

"Ye-ah," said Sam slowly, not exactly sure how best to follow, "She's very supportive."

Despite the heavy sarcasm, Dean's dramatic declaration seemed to have convinced most of those gathered around the table, who began nodding to one another in agreement of the sentiments. Sam watched them in amazement, trying to ignore Dean who was trying to catch his eye with a smug smile.

One person however, seemed to need a little more convincing,

"Tell me, _gentlemen_," Father Charles asked lazily from further down the table, his tone sharp with suspicion and instantly drawing a hushed silence from the other Priests, "Sister Helena was a little vague with me about what brought you to the Church in the first place. I wondered if you might…enlighten us as to your spiritual journeys to this point."

Whatever it was Sister Helena had told him in order to have them both admitted, it had only partially worked and now they were on the back foot once more. With the big cheese no less. Not good. Sam took a deep breath,

"Family tradition," he explained, trying to sound casual, as if he might have explained the same thing a million times, "I came from a very strong religious background and it's just – it's just always been something I knew I wanted to do."

"Your calling?" Father Matthews interjected helpfully from beside him. Sam could have turned round and kissed him, but instead settled for nodding his agreement.

"Yes. Exactly."

Father Charles raised an unimpressed eyebrow,

"And you?" he snapped at Dean, "Similar story no doubt?"

"Actually, no as it happens."

The cool confidence of the reply made Sam's stomach lurch in horror. _Oh no_, what in the hell was Dean up to? _Just keep it simple_, he begged, _for the love of God keep it simple_.

"To be honest I was something of a tearaway as a kid, always getting into trouble, fights, stealing, that sort of thing…" whatever story Dean was inventing, it tripped off his tongue so easily that for a second even Sam started to believe it. Everyone else certainly did, leaning in intently, not realising how much Dean was relishing his captive audience, "…then one day the police gave me a choice. I could keep doing what I was doing and probably end up in jail, or, I could go along to my local church and volunteer for something, anything, just on the off-chance that it might keep me off the streets."

"So what did you do?" asked a young Priest from across the table, earning himself the merest flicker of a _what do you think idiot_ glance, before Dean smiled graciously and continued,

"Well, I wasn't convinced at first but then I started to stick around to hear Vespers at night, and turning up early to hear Matins in the morning. By the time I heard my first Easter Communion that was it. I knew there was nothing else I could do in life, except to give myself up to God. It's been the best decision I ever made…excuse me…" abruptly Dean broke off, dropping his head into his hands with a forced sob. Around the table several others stifled similar responses, clearly caught up in the emotion of Dean's tale. Sam stared at them incredulously. _Seriously?_

"I think I'm going to take a moment…" Dean added brokenly, waving a hand at the rest of the Priests in both apology and insistence as he stood from his chair, "…I'll be fine. Please carry on."

Nobody but Sam however caught the mischievous grin that flashed briefly across the otherwise stricken features. Nor did anybody else realise that poor-emotionally-wrought Dean was taking the opportunity of everyone's being gathered for dinner as an opportunity to snoop. Ever the professional. It meant leaving Sam alone at the table, but with his emotional exit still being felt, he doubted there'd be many more prying questions for the day.

Quickly he checked his watch. He had half an hour left before dinner ended – which meant he needed to hurry. In his pocket he had a crumpled plan of the grounds, designed to be given out to the first-year students and 'borrowed' for them by Sister Helena. Father Miner's rooms were in the building opposite his and Sam's, higher up and set further back. He was on the same floor as the bathrooms, which meant that, unlike them, he did not have to pad up and down cold steps and corridors in the middle of the night whenever he needed to go. Not that he'd be needing to go anywhere anymore.

Like the Chapel, the scene of the crime had been boarded up, this time the barrier sitting over where the shattered door had been. Again the big footprints sunk deep into the flagstones before petering out further along the corridor, disappearing into nothing. _Brilliant_.

Pulling out the penknife he'd taken from Sam, Dean set about removing the boarding once more, setting it down with a thud he hoped nobody else could hear as he pried it away from the wall. The scene beyond was a mess. What little furniture there was had been tossed around the room, fragments of wood strewn across every surface, Father's Miner belongings too had been scattered and his sheets and clothing lay in familiarly gruesome patches of dried, stained blood denoting where the poor Priest had met his end on the floor of his own bedroom.

Dean stifled a grimace and set about picking through what he could, leafing through the books and scattered sheets of paper for clues and finding only religious text staring him back in the face. There was nothing to suggest why exactly the man had been targeted and yet targeted he had been. Horrifically. Something had to be summoning the creature and yet who and why was still a total mystery.

As a bell rang again in the background, Dean looked up startled, checking his watch once more. Dinner was over and therefore so was his Scooby-Doo style snooping. Quickly he stood, crossing the untidy room and taking one last look before setting about replacing the board again. It seemed to take longer this time, the screws refusing to stay in place for him while he rotated them back in their holes. Nor did the students seem to be hanging around as the grounds abruptly sprang into life once more.

"Go in damn it!" he hissed to himself as the sound of harsh footsteps began to pace down the corridor in his direction. _Hurry up, hurry up._ As the footfalls became louder, Dean made a final turn and scrambled backwards, pocketing the knife and pulling free his map again, peering at it intently.

"Dean?"

He let loose a sigh at the familiar voice that rang out towards him, dropping the map in relief and glaring up accusingly at his younger brother,

"Give me a bit of warning next time would you Sam?" he snapped, gesturing towards the blocked door, "I nearly took my damn fingers off putting that thing back."

Sam glanced towards it, unconcerned by his brother's tone. Dean was usually pissed about something.

"Anything behind it?"

"Yeah, a mess. Place is about as cosy as our room."

"More footprints," Sam stated, crouching down and running a hand across one of the indentations. Dean nodded, sighing again as he made sure the last few screws were properly in place,

"Of the incredible vanishing variety,"

"They shrink again?" Sam asked, looking up.

"Yep. Which is just great for us," wiping a hand across the back of his pants, Dean took a step back to admire his handy-work then quickly caught Sam by the arm, pulling him to his feet abruptly as a shadow fell across the floor and a figure rounded the corner, stopping suddenly before them. Glaring.

"What are you two doing here?" Father Charles snapped quickly, eyes narrowing in suspicion. Quickly Sam rose a hand to scratch awkwardly at the back of his head,

"Oh…well, St. Gregory's is such a big place…" he began, trying to sound as casual as he could, "…I was convinced this was where our room was but – ,"

"I think we were holding the map upside down," finished Dean, producing the crumpled paper and rotating it in his hand before pointing to an invisible spot somewhere in the middle, "See."

"Right," Sam replied with a breathless laugh, offering a shrug up towards the senior clergyman whilst painfully aware that the pair of them probably sounded like some comical double-act. Father Charles stared at them for what seemed to be an eternity.

"You're quarters are located across the quad," he clipped finally. Dean nodded, holding up the map in a gesture of gratitude,

"Well all right then, thanks for clearing that up Chas,"

There was a visible flinch at the use of the nickname, from Sam as much as the Priest, although the younger Winchester knew the insolence stemmed from Dean's trying to divert the senior man's attentions away from the possible signs of activity at Father Miner's door rather than a genuine desire to piss him off. Although, judging by the smile that accompanied it…

"It's _Charles_," came the reply, dipped in venom.

"Of course it is," Dean smiled sweetly back at him before turning to make his move, "Come on Sam, first one back gets to pick tonight's gospel readings."

Father Charles watched them go, eyes still narrowed in contempt. Clearly, and perhaps in record timing, Dean had made himself another enemy. Sam kept his gaze low. _Way to go bro_.

"I take it you're fully recovered from earlier then?" the senior Priest called out at them as they were about to round the corner to safety.

"Err…yeah," Dean replied, offering a somewhat sheepish grin, "Sorry about that."

"Not at all. I was impressed with your devotion," Father Charles replied with a smile that sent shivers down their spines, "Which is why I thought you might like to help me lead Matins tomorrow morning."

Dean's smile faltered and he swallowed the lump in his throat with some difficulty,

"Sure," he offered croakily, feeling Sam tense beside them. Charles' poisonous smile never wavered.

"Good. Then I'll see you tomorrow morning."

"Yep. See you in the morning. Can't wait."

_Crap and double crap._

* * *

Back to the story now, and I hope all's still going okay.

Properly finished writing the whole thing now – snow day, no work, plenty of writing time - so can post nightly from now on if that suits! Hate having these stories hanging around when I could be getting on with another...already the ideas are flowing!

Anyhoo, please continue to let me know what you think. It really means a lot!


	8. Rock of Ages

**Rock of Ages.**

"What the hell are we going to do Dean?"

"I'll…think of something."

"Think of something? What?" From where he was sat cross-legged on the bed, computer balanced on his lap, Sam sounded even more shrill with panic than he had done when they'd first got back to their room. Although, Dean considered, the fact that he – the main cause of concern – was lying in bed on the fringes of sleep probably provided little in the way of comfort, "Dean," Sam tried again, calmer, "Unless you don't think of something _now_, you're screwed."

He was right of course, but Dean wasn't about to let his brother have the satisfaction of being correct, instead sitting up slightly punching some shape into his pillow and settling down again lazily.

"Why don't you just concentrate on finding whatever it is that's beating people into paste around here and let me worry about tomorrow morning, okay Sammy?"

In response Sam simply heaved a sigh, continuing to scroll down the pages of text open on the screen in front of him. In the following silence, Dean cracked open an eyelid.

"Anything?"

"Plenty of rock-lore," Sam relied wearily, rubbing a hand across tired eyes, "But not so much on things made of rock. The closest I could get was a Sumerian rock demon called an Asag, but that's supposed to bring sickness so…" he tailed off with a shrug, flicking back through some of his notes, "Other than that, all I've got is a bunch of creation myths involving rock spirits, and a couple of things associated with turning or being turned to rock, Gorgons, Scandinavian Trolls exposed to sunlight…"

"So, nothing that likes to make mince-meat out of Catholic Priests using giant stone hands then?"

"No."

"Well," Dean sang back sarcastically, "This just gets better and better."

"And it won't help us tomorrow morning either,"

As his brother moved to rehash old ground again, Dean let out a low moan and turned his head, burying it as far as he could into the flat little pillow in front of him.

"Sam!"

"Come on Dean! We've got less than eight hours to think of something. Because if we don't and you have to get up there in front of the entire student population and lead them in service, I think it's going to be pretty obvious that you don't have the first clue what – ,"

He was interrupted abruptly by a faint tapping at the door, the sound sending ripples of caution through them. At once Dean was fully awake, one hand snaked under the mattress and to the handle of his gun as he watched Sam pad carefully across the room. He paused briefly at the door, checking Dean was ready and then flung it open quickly and forcefully, practically ripping the visitor in with it.

Both brothers blinked. It was a small boy, standing wide-eyed and slightly off-balance in shock, peering in at his new dormitory monitors with a hint of fright. Quickly Dean uncurled his hand from the gun, and in the doorway Sam spared his brother a quick _that was close_ look before dropping to an instinctive crouch before the small pupil.

"Hey," he greeted softly, aware that whatever had been bothering the boy, having a door ripped out of his hand had probably done little to help, "You okay?"

Behind them, still lying in bed and watching the scene in bemusement, Dean frowned, voicing what he considered a much more pressing question,

"Dude, are you wearing a nightshirt?"

Everyone paused momentarily to take in the boy's attire, including the kid himself, bewildered. He looked up again cluelessly confirming Dean's worst fears,

"Man, this place is _old-school_."

Sam shot him a glare, turning back to their visitor once more with a friendly smile,

"What's wrong?"

He was a chubby little thing, seven perhaps eight, right down at the youngest end of the school spectrum and clearly still at the age where nightmares were a constant threat. Instead of an answer, the boy sniffed miserably and scrubbed at red cheeks with the back of his hand.

"Bad dream?" guessed Sam, knowing the feeling well. The kid nodded solemnly.

"Well don't you worry," Dean put-in from behind them, his cheerfulness making Sam instantly suspicious, "Father Sammy here will take you back to bed and tuck you in all nice. If you're lucky he might even tell you his favourite bedtime prayer."

"Well I – ," as the kid took Sam's hand determinedly, effectively cutting off any protest, Sam let out a sigh and straightened up reluctantly, saving a departing death-glare for the meddling brother who was staring at him so smugly from under the covers.

"Have fun you two!" he called out as Sam shut the door with a bang, half-dragged by his small charge.

Dean let out a chuckle, thoroughly pleased with himself. It was good to know that even deep in the confines of a religious school in the guise of a Padre, there was still plenty of opportunity to rib his little brother. Smiling again, he turned over, grimacing at the bumps that rose and fell across the mattress, digging into his back every time he so much as drew breath. Sleeping was going to be difficult, not that the next morning's impending predicament helped any. Sam was right, if he let himself get dragged up in front of the school, he was screwed. Which meant he needed a definite plan. Sister Helena had been useful enough in giving them pointers for conversation, but he doubted even she would be able to go through a whole service with him in such a short space of time. If Father Charles expected any Latin of him, then the best he was going to get was an exorcism.

"Christo," he muttered to himself sitting up to pummel the pillow again as his anger and discomfort got the better of him. At this rate he was just going to have to fake a sore throat and be done with it.

The sound of screaming caught him unawares, making him jump startled as it echoed in from outside, ringing in clear from somewhere in the grounds. He knew what that meant.

Grabbing the gun from under his mattress Dean half-jumped, half-rolled from the bed, nearly ending up sprawled on the floor as his foot twisted in the blankets. He shook it free irritably and stumbled to the door, flinging it wide and starting to run down the corridor. He collided with Sam halfway down, watching his brother's equally startled face turn in his direction. It was happening again.

Around them doors began to tentatively creep open, sending Sam into teacher-mode,

"Everyone back in your rooms," he shouted, "Keep your doors closed!"

They complied at once, making Dean suddenly grateful for the obedience as he and Sam chased along the corridor, down the steps and out into the cold air of the quad.

Ahead of them, a little party of senior students had already begun to gather around the centre of the criss-crossing pathways, setting up a human cordon against any younger students curious enough to have crept out of bed. As members of staff, Sam and Dean pushed their way through easily, coming to a standstill beside a little group of Priests within the ring who stood in horror looking at the scene before them. A Priest – distinguishable only by the black of his blood-soaked robes – was lying face down in the fountain turning the water a murky shade of red, above him the stream from the feature splattered down into the broken masonry, the ornate statuette that had centred the piece strewn in lumps around the path and under the water. Father Charles was half-bent over the body, one hand hovering hopelessly as if not sure what to do.

"Somebody call an ambulance!" he hissed brokenly, although he and everybody else was aware that there was little paramedics would be able to do except provide a body bag.

"It's Father Kearney," somebody whispered hoarsely from the group, drawing shocked sobs. Sam exchanged a look with Dean, watching as his older brother nodded. Although not much good for Father Kearney, the timing of the murder meant that maybe they were close enough to finally spot their quarry. Quietly they peeled away from the group, circling around the fountain in search of the inevitable trail of footprints.

It didn't take long to spot them, cutting straight through a torn-up section of the hedge and across the lawn where the bright illumination of the lights dipped into shadow. Waiting until they were sufficiently dark enough, Dean drew the gun from the band of his pyjamas, ignoring the feeling of the icy wet grass soaking through his socks and noticing for the first time that Sam was barefoot.

They trod quickly and quietly across the ground, following the trail and looking frantically for the moment that the prints started to shrink. It happened with disappointing speed,

"No!" Dean hissed angrily, "Not again."

But even as he picked up the pace he knew he was fighting a losing battle. By the time they had crossed another twenty feet, the tracks had disappeared altogether.

"Son of a – what the hell is this thing?"

Beside him Sam let out a heavy sigh,

"Well whatever it is we're not going to catch it like this," he said, absently screwing up his toes against the damp as he shook his head, "We need to work out what it wants. There has to be a connection between the victims somewhere. There _has_ to be. It can't just be killing at random."

Dean snorted derisively, pushing the gun back into his pants, jaw clenched in anger. He wasn't so sure. Finally he let his shoulders droop, the cold whistling in through the thin t-shirt he was wearing as he turned to head back, Sam at his side.

"This thing is really starting to piss me off."

As if it hadn't been already. Up ahead of them the little party of shell-shocked Priests still stood in a terrified huddle, staring at the scene in a tableau of horror and awe. The sight made Sam frown as his eyes ran over them one by one and he half-turned his head towards his brother, keeping his voice low,

"Hey, notice anyone missing?"

It took him less than a second to answer, eyes flickering up in instant assessment.

"Father Gulla?"

Sam nodded back,

"Father Gulla."

Right then. They had their first suspect.

* * *

Dum-dum-dum!

You almost didn't get a post today – I took my life in my hands driving to work on hellishly icy roads! Never again! Had to come home and have a glass of vodka and a big bar of chocolate to calm the nerves! Might just call in sick tomorrow and not take the risk!

Anyway…thank you to those reading and reviewing – your comments always make me smile and give me a warm feeling inside (in weather like this that's pretty important!) And to anyone just reading I hope you consider dropping me a little line at some point, although we've got a little ways to go yet!


	9. All Things Good and Holy

**All Things Good and Holy.**

Matins – as Father Matthews came to tell them early the next morning – was cancelled, the sigh of relief that accompanied the news drawing a frown of surprise across the small Priest's face. Pupils were to stay in their rooms, with meals to be collected and distributed to them by their respective dormitory supervisors, which in their case meant Sam since Dean was neither up nor dressed. In fact he was only just pulling on his shoes as Sam wandered back into the room three-quarters of an hour later, waving a round of toast in his direction.

"Is that it?" had been Dean's response, nose wrinkled distastefully. Sam had nodded an affirmative.

"Yep."

"No bacon? No coffee?"

The sound of his older brother's whiny, almost petulant tone had made Sam smile then shake his head in a sympathetic but corresponding negative,

"No bacon. No coffee."

"Man…this place sucks."

But apparently because of their breakfast menu rather than their serial murder-record. Interesting.

Together – Dean at his side munching dejectedly on soggy toast – the pair had set off across the quadrangle towards the Chapel, where Sam had seen Father Gulla heading whilst on his breakfast rounds. The Priest was still there as they turned up, descending the steps slowly and wearily, leaning forward as if some great weight was resting upon his shoulders. Sam regarded him carefully through half-hooded eyes, _perhaps it was_.

"Father," Dean greeted, brushing himself of the last of the crumbs and wiping buttery hands down the seams of his trousers to the sound of an aggravated sigh from his younger brother. Father Gulla looked up in surprise,

"Oh…I…did not see you approach," he stuttered uncertainly, forcing a smile and nodding at them in belated greetings, "How are you?"

"Better than Father Kearney," Dean clipped back, barrelling in all gun's blazing. Sam silently rolled his eyes, gritting his teeth together in frustration. _Smooth Dean, real smooth_. In front of them, Father Gulla took a deep breath and nodded slowly, a fog starting to tear up across the surface of his glasses,

"Yes," he replied in a half-whisper, drawing in what could have been a sob, "Yes, poor Father Kearney. Poor, poor man."

Dean shared a look with Sam, face harsh. He wasn't buying it.

"Must've had a pretty good view," he continued, "Seeing how your room's practically next door."

As Father Gulla blinked up at them, slightly resembling a rabbit caught in the headlights, Sam chanced a swift elbow to Dean's ribs, his silent message clear, _take it easy will you?_ After all, if Gulla _was_ their man then he could somehow control a pounding, strangling, merciless monster made of rock. Treading softly was definitely their best option. Father Gulla however shook his head,

"No, no I – I didn't hear a thing. I was out of my room last night."

Dean didn't take his brother's hint.

"_Really_? How convenient."

"Indeed," Father Gulla quickly crossed himself, "The Lord must have been looking out for me. Sparing me from such a terrible scene."

"Pity he wasn't looking out for Father Kearney too."

As the situation began to teeter on the edge of dangerous, Sam stepped forward past Dean, purposefully knocking into him as he went and trying to ease the tension with the most sympathetic expression he could muster,

"Were you and Father Kearney close?" he asked softly,

The older man sighed, wiping at teary eyes with the back of his hand. Dean groaned. _Oh brother_.

"He used to come to me for literature," Gulla sniffed, composing himself slightly for a vaguely off topic aside, "I am a great collector of books."

"We'd heard," Dean replied, dead-pan. Father Gulla, much like Matthews the day before, seemed oblivious to the tone.

"He was such a bright, vibrant young man. Always asking questions. Always trying to further his mind."

As Dean made to roll his eyes for what seemed like the fiftieth time that day, he felt Sam's elbow jab into him once more, turning an angry face towards his brother, who simply nodded across the quad with a warning expression. Dean followed his gaze to see Father Charles stalking towards them and stifled a low groan. _Great._

"Father Gulla," the senior figure greeted as he came to a stop before them, tone taking on a sharper edge as he took in Sam and then Dean, "Gentlemen."

"Father," Sam nodded politely. Dean kept quiet.

"I apologise about this morning's arrangements with the students, but the board and I decided in light of last night…" he paused, suddenly seeming frail and exhausted. Sam could hardly blame him, "…in light of last night's 'events', it was best to keep the children away until the police have finished their investigations – which is still several hours away I'm afraid."

As he shook his head, Father Gulla moved to place a comforting arm across his sleeve,

"It was the right decision William,"

The older man nodded, the words seeming to mean a lot,

"Thank you, I only hope…what the – ," as the last part of his sentence hitched in annoyance and his gaze rose to a point over their shoulders, Sam and Dean turned towards the main gates, where a string of pupils was striding towards them in neat pairs, long tall legs hanging below short checked skirts. Dean felt his heart begin to pound in excitement. _This_ was what he had signed on for. Uniformed, curvaceous, quite possibly old enough to be legal and starved of the opposite sex. School girls. Lots of them. With a familiar face at their head.

"Sister Helena," Father Charles blinked in astonishment, "Did you – I thought – Matins has been cancelled this morning."

The nun stared back at him, expression one of complete shock. Or that's how it appeared to everyone except Sam and Dean, who caught the tiny wink she threw them before replying to the baffled Priest,

"Really? Goodness me, I didn't hear a thing. Why?"

His eyes drifting quickly over the girls grouped behind her, Father Charles stepped in close, lowering his voice in an attempt at secrecy.

"There…" he cleared his throat awkwardly, "There has been another attack."

"No!"

"I'm afraid so, yes."

"Well honestly I never heard a word…" As Sister Helena continued to draw the older man's attention, even going so far as to grip at his arm in sudden shock at it all, Dean felt someone slowly starting to lift the back of his jacket, which was disconcerting in more ways than one in that he had taken cares to tuck his gun into the band of his pants before setting off that morning, not taking any chances with the monster still upping the body-count. _A_ weapon was better than none.

As the material inched up, and with Father Charles still trying to remain conspiratorial with the morning's news, Dean swiftly reached behind him and snapped strong fingers around a wrist, whirling round into the face of a beautiful brunette student, who was staring up at him with deep eyes and pouting cherry-lips.

"Looking for the confessional?" he quipped, tone both amused and sharp as he waited for her to respond. She stared back at him, seductively.

"Why?" she asked, voice low in a flirtatious whisper, "Want to hear my sins?"

Dean blinked down at her surprised, _jeez sweetheart, take it easy_.

"Err…"

As he stood in semi-turned-on bafflement, trying hard to think of something coherent to say other than, _how old are you_, the girl picked up his hand in hers and slid a folded piece of paper up from out of her bra cup. Dean swallowed, trying to hard to control his desires as she pressed the note into his palm and pushed his fingers down around it.

"This is for you," she whispered, stepping back suddenly as Sister Helena broke off from Father Charles and clapped her hands for attention. The air still smelt of the girl's perfume.

"Now then ladies!" Sister Helena appealed over their heads, "I'm afriad due to unforseen circumstances, Matins has been cancelled today, so we all need to make our way back to our quarters. Come on now everyone, quickly."

Catching Dean's eye as she waved her arms at her students, Sister Helena nodded questioningly towards his hand, and, shaking himself awake again Dean quickly cottoned on and unfolded the paper crumpled into his hand.

_Meet me in the Chapel in five minutes. Angel._

He didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed that it wasn't from the girl. Although as he caught Sam's quizzical gaze he decided that he should probably be grateful.

"Sam?" Both brothers turned to look as Father Charles singled out the younger, nodding gently towards Father Gulla who still seemed shell-shocked, "Will you see him back to his room for me?"

"Of course."

"Thank you."

As Sam stepped forward, placing a hand on the fellow Priest's shoulder and jerking him from his dazed reverie, he glanced towards Dean, a silent question conveyed by the furrowing of his brow.

_You coming?_

Dean's response was a single nod towards the Chapel followed by a blink.

_Can't, something to do. You going to be ok?_

A nod back at him.

_Yeah._

Besides, it gave them the chance they'd been waiting for to poke around their main suspect's room. They wouldn't get a better opportunity short of an open invitation, and they weren't about to wait around for one of those. Tightening his grip on the other man's jacket, Sam turned, wheeling them both in the direction of Father Gulla's building and trying to sound comforting as he did,

"Come on. Let's get you back inside."

His tone was soft, coaxing. The one he used when Dean was ill or out of it from the aftermath of a fight, a head-knock or frequently both. When he could barely put one foot in front of the other and needed guiding carefully around whilst Sam pretended that he was not, actually, telling him what to do. In such situations, the gentle voice was an important part of the charade and it seemed to work just as well on Father Gulla too, as he let Sam lead him across the quad like a lost pony.

Dean had been right, the Priest's room did indeed over-look the gruesome crime scene, although Sam noted the blinds were down, either by request of the police forensics team or else through personnal choice. But it was not the blind – or the activities beyond it – that drew Sam's attention, instead his eyes fell in astonishment at the bookshelves that lined Father Gulla's bright, and it had to be said pretty reasonably-sized quarters. Row upon row of them, all groaning under the weight of a variety of books, objects and artefacts.

"Wow."

Composing himself slightly, the older man caught Sam's awed expression and allowed himself a smile,

"Impressive isn't it?"

Sam nodded dumbly,

"Yeah."

"I believe it is every man's duty to open their eyes to the complexities of God's Universe," he paused as Sam began to scan the bookshelves before him, feeling the familiar excitement that he used to feel when he stepped into the law library at Stanford. There was something about untapped knowledge that was so tantalising. There was so much he didn't know – a fact only enhanced by Father Gulla's chosen topics of interest, Buddhism, Hinduism, Sikhism…Paganism? Noting his surprise, Father Gulla smiled, "I'll admit, not all of it falls within the boundaries of 'acceptable' literature for a Catholic Priest. Still, it is a big world out there Sam and we would be foolish to assume ours is the only doctrine within it."

"What are these?"

Moving on from the shelves, Sam crossed to a display of figures, instruments and pieces, each carefully ordered and organised. An intriguing collection. Father Gulla moved with him.

"Aah, these I got from my visit to New Guinea – native craftmanship. I always like to appreciate the local culture of anywhere I travel. It does me good to have them out on display. Reminds me that there are a great many ways of life."

"And these?"

Sam wasn't exactly sure what it was that drove him around the room. Really he should have been looking for signs of summoning murderous creatures, but he could see none, and Father Gulla's calm intelligence and wealth of world-experience was so tempting that he could barely contain himself. He was glad Dean had not accompanied them. He felt like a boy in a toy shop, almost praying that the older Priest was innocent of all charges laid silently at his door.

"These are from Israel," Father Gulla responded, picking up one of the small models and turning it over in his hand, "Models made from clay from the banks of the sea of Gallilee. Rabbis supposedly once used them as servants."

He put it back down again carefully, watching as Sam's eyes continue to wander across the room.

"You travel a lot?"

It seemed a stupid question given that the room was a vitural homage to the far-flung and exotic, but the Priest smiled indulgently none-the-less.

"As much as I can, although unfortunately not quite like I used to," he sat down heavily in one of the chairs, heaving a sigh and offering Sam another. The younger man shook his head politely. He couldn't get too relaxed. Father Gulla continued, "Places on official trips are quite tight, and it's felt that such… _excursions_ would better benefit the younger Priests. Father Kearney has…" abruptly he paused, eyes finding Sam's in a look of what? Shock? Guilt? "…_had_ just got a place on one. I – I was going to lend him some reading…"

He tailed off again slowly, his shoulders slumping as Sam watched him carefully. So, Father Kearney had just taken a spot on the next trip to Israel. Something that Father Gulla himself would have jumped at given half the chance.

Sam felt his heart fall a little, some of the light dulling from his eyes.

He knew what it meant, and he knew what Dean would say.

It was a motive.

Father Gulla had just incriminated himself.

* * *

Well, I refused to go to work this morning, so have had a nice day-off to do lots of writing in! I've just finished a one-shot, but I'm not sure whether to put it up now or wait until this is finished…hmm, decisions, decisions.

But for now the mystery deepens…Father Gulla? What d'ya think?

P.S. Yep, Dean _was_ let off the hook (probably because I know less Latin than he does!)


	10. Knowledge is Power

Just before you begin a quick note to say don't worry, Jenny doesn't have a big part in the story before you start to resent her! I just thought I'd use her for a cheap laugh at Dean's expense. Ahh the usefulness of OCs!

Enjoy!

* * *

**Knowledge is Power.**

The Chapel – perhaps unsurprisingly given that all students were in lock-down – was empty as Dean let himself in, footsteps clicking loud against the flagstone floor and reverberating up into the vaulted roof.

Sister Helena wasn't there, which didn't come as a great shock seeing as she somehow had to get her students back to their building _and_ retrace her steps to meet him within the designated time-frame. Still, the longer he waited for her the longer Sam was alone with their chief suspect and whilst the creature had yet to strike during the day, in Dean's eyes that made the situation no less dangerous. The quicker he finished up in the chapel, the sooner he could go back-up his brother.

Gazing up at the familiar statuette of the Virgin Mother, Dean let his gaze fall across the simply carved features, the whole sculpture white except for a dash of colour here and there. A thin line of gold denoting hair tucked under a shawl, dark rosary detail around her neck, and bright cherry-red for small, full lips that reminded Dean all too well of the girl who had passed on Sister Helena's note. All seductive eyes and husky whispers. It made him miss his teenage years.

Chancing a glance in the direction of a relief depicting Jesus on the cross, he let out a semi-amused snort.

_Too much to ask that the murders be in the girls school?_

"Dean?"

"Huh?" clearing his throat and suddenly feeling unnaturally guilty, he spun quickly towards the voice, acting as sheepishly as if he'd been speaking out loud, "What?"

Sister Helena observed him shrewdly, looking quickly between the hunter and the relief that had drawn his attention before finally sighing and briefly shutting her eyes. She didn't want to know.

"So, there's been another one," she began instead, the sentence more of a statement than a question. Dean nodded,

"Father Kearney."

He paused as Sister Helena gasped, dropping her head and quickly crossing her chest.

"Saints preserve us," she whispered in distress as Dean stood awkwardly before her, unsure whether or not to interrupt. Eventually she swallowed, looking up again and nodding, "Right. Have you and Sam found anything else?"

"Not really. We tried to catch it last night but it got a pretty good head-start on us. We think it's being summoned, since it seems to go for specific targets before disappearing again."

"Father Gulla?" Sister Helena asked, almost sadly. Dean frowned, it had been her suggestion – however tentative – in the first place. Now she felt sorry for the man? _Nuns_.

"Sam's talking to him now."

"I see," she nodded, still looking sad. Dean stayed quiet, waiting, knowing there was something else the nun wanted to say but wrestling with her conscience over whether or not to say it. Finally though, she heaved a sigh, battle clearly won, "The reason I suggested Father Gulla – as well as his knowledge of foreign and sometimes occult cultures – is that just before Father Miner died, I overheard him talking with Father Gulla about his offer at Saint Mary's in Chicago. He was very kind and helpful towards Father Miner but I couldn't help but feel that…" she paused again, searching for the words, "…Father Gulla wished the posting had been offered to him. After all, he's been with the Church a lot longer than some of the other Priests here, and yet somehow he keeps being over-looked for promotion. So when Father Miner was killed I just thought maybe…" she tailed off uncertainly.

"Years of being passed-by have finally started to get to him," Dean finished darkly. Sister Helena sighed again, offering up a shrug,

"But that doesn't explain Father Bennett, or Father Kearney now either. I'm afraid it's all such a mess."

"Yeah," Dean agreed absently before realising that he should probably be trying to comfort her, "But don't worry. We'll deal with it."

And as Sister Helena glanced up at him she was sure he would. She had every faith in them.

"Thank you. Now, I'd best be heading back. I've left my girls unattended and they can be a little wild sometimes to put it mildly,"

Dean blinked, unaware if she was deliberately playing with him or not. Seeing the twinkle in her eyes

he decided she was and felt himself redden in embarrassment. Had Sister Helena seen his little exchange with…

"Jenny," she said suddenly, as if reading his mind.

"Huh?"

"The student who passed on my message. She's a good girl, a little unruly but very trustworthy."

"What did you tell her?"

Sister Helena shrugged casually,

"That I had a message to give to my godson's friend, and that Father Charles wasn't to see. She didn't ask any questions."

_Not to you she didn't._

"Take care Dean," she continued, fixing him with a suddenly serious look, "Both of you."

He nodded in response, watching her turn to leave, hurrying back the way she had come and picking up her pace as somewhere a bell rang for what would normally have been lunch.

"We will."

"And if you need anything…"

She was gone before she'd finished the sentence, letting it hang in the air, speaking for itself. Dean let out a long breath, listening to it echo out into the newly empty Chapel. So, Father Gulla had a motive, Sister Helena had confirmed that much, now they just needed evidence before they burst in and accused the wrong man, which was embarrassing enough out in the real world where they could just melt away and regroup. At St. Gregory's they were going to have one shot at getting the real deal, and they couldn't afford to mess it up. Which reminded him.

Sam. Alone. With their possible suspect.

Turning on his heel, he pivoted up the aisle, stride determined, face set firm. He didn't get more than a couple of steps however before a set of hands grabbed him by the arm and pulled him sideways, tipping him off balance and pushing him into the opened side of the confessional before shutting the door behind him. It took a second for the familiarly seductive scent to waft in through the wooden partition, but as it did Dean felt himself start to stand-down from danger mode. Jenny.

"Forgive me Father," she whispered, dropping her voice lower in an attempt to increase the husky, seductive tone, "For I have sinned."

The sentence sent shivers down his spine. Good shivers. Shivers that made the breath catch in his throat. Damn this was one sexy schoolgirl. But she was a _girl_, he reminded himself quickly, that was the vital thing. School_girl_. He tried to imagine Sam's disapproving voice in his head. _Dean, do _not_ go there_.

"Don't you want to know how?"

Dean chuckled as Jenny's semi-affronted, still suggestive lilt slid through the partition again, could see the shine in her eyes as she tried to gaze through at him,

"I think I can guess. Impure thoughts?"

He wasn't sure why exactly he was carrying the charade on. Firstly it was stupid and dangerous given that they were in the middle of the Chapel and anyone could have walked in, and secondly…_schoolgirl_. She however, didn't seem in the least concerned.

"Dirty, wicked thoughts."

Strangely the situation suddenly became almost funny, and Dean had to stifle a laugh, trying to work out how – given the fact that he hunted the supernatural for a living – his life had just managed to get that much weirder.

"I'll bet."

"Want to hear them?"

"Maybe later sweetheart," he grinned, letting out a long sigh of pent-up frustration, "Maybe a lot later."

"How much later?"

"Say, in a couple of years?"

"But," she sounded hurt, surprised even, "What if I don't have any sins to confess then?"

"I'll take the chance."

What were the odds that a schoolgirl who wanted to do a trainee Priest in the confessional was ever going to be sin-free? Fairly slim in Dean's opinion. Not, of course, that seeing her once they'd got the job wrapped up was ever actually going to happen either. Which again reminded him of Sam and where he was supposed to be rather than swapping innuendo with little miss like-a-virgin-touched-for-the-very-first-time-not-so-much.

Interpreting the silence as a further refusal of her offer, Jenny let out long sigh, her eyes still sparkling sharply through the ornately carved screen,

"You must be some kind of Priest," she offered in vague compliment, obviously viewing the brush-off as a mark of Dean's devotion to celibacy. Dean snorted softly, _whatever helps you sleep at night_. Which, ironically for him, was usually sex.

"You have no idea."

And that, apparently was that, because moments later Dean heard the door to the other side of the confessional creak open, saw the light beam into the small space and listened as the her heels clicked daintily up the aisle and away.

He let out a low groan of frustration, aware that it was going to take a little longer for his blood pressure to drop low enough to allow him back out into the real world. He was supposed to be a priest after all. Although, he had to admit that as a successful graduate of the uniformed schoolgirl resistance test he was probably a hell of a lot less pervy than plenty of the real thing. Creepy.

Pushing against the door as he began to feel more presentable, Dean let the light beam in at him sharply from the high Chapel windows, the brightness making him squint as he wormed his way out of the small dark space he'd been cramped in and quietly shut the door behind him.

_Right. Time to find Sam._

Or at least it would have been had he not turned straight into the quizzical and unimpressed face of Father Charles.

"Jeez – ," Dean exhaled in shock, managing to avoid the second syllable at the last moment by turning the exclamation into one long noise, "Father Charles…I didn't hear you come in."

An eyebrow raised sharply in response. How much had he heard?

"Evidently not. What were you doing in the confessional?"

"Having a look?" Dean offered unconvincingly, drawing another narrowed-eyed glare.

"You do know you are not yet qualified to take people's confessions?" the senior priest continued, the barest hint of doubt creeping into his voice as if he thought that Dean might, in fact, be that stupid. The hunter gave him a wide smile in response,

"Oh, don't worry. I know. I was just practising."

"Practising?" the doubt rose tenfold.

"For the big moment."

Father Charles gave a single, slow nod.

"I see," he responded flatly, in a tone that suggested he didn't at all. His eyes narrowed again suddenly, closing almost to slits as he got the impression he was being mocked, "I think you should return to your rooms," he snapped quickly.

_Rooms_? Dean almost snorted. Sorry, room_s_? Plural?

"Of course," he smiled instead, biting back the irritation that largely stemmed from his own carelessness. He had neither heard Father Charles approach, nor offered him a reasonable enough excuse. As if traipsing around a school after some rock maniac wasn't hard enough, he had gone and given the big bad boss yet _another_ reason to keep an eye on him. Great. Still, it could have been worse. He could have wandered by five minutes earlier and got himself a ring-side seat for the attempted seduction. Dean could only imagine what he'd have to say about that, or what Sam _would_ say about it for that matter.

Sam.

Right.

Offering a final butter-wouldn't-melt smile up at Father Charles, Dean turned and headed up the aisle, feeling the eyes on his back as he went and quietly cursing to himself at the way his week was going. He hoped Sam was having more luck.

The quicker they got rid of the rock-dude, the quicker they could leave and the quicker they left, the quicker he could get laid. Properly. Without having to worry about jail...

…for a while at least.


	11. Holy Rock Monster Batman!

**Holy Rock Monster Batman!**

"She asked you to what?!" Sam hissed, trying to stifle his disbelief as he gazed over at his brother wide-eyed, "In the confessional?!"

Crossing the quad side-by-side, collars up against the bitter evening chill, Dean shrugged, pulling a vaguely contradictory face,

"Well, not in so many words but…"

"Dean!" Sam sounded beyond horrified, fighting hard to keep his voice low, "She's a _schoolgir_l,"

"I know Sam!" came the snapped reply, scathing but offended, "I'm not an idiot."

"So you didn't do anything?"

"No! What do you take me for?"

It was probably best on both sides that Sam kept quiet on that one, letting Dean stalk on a step ahead as they crossed the lawn towards Father Charles' house, following similar black dots barely illuminated in the darkness as St. Gregory's priests descended on their Commander-in-Chief's private quarters for dinner. In light of the previous night's events the decision had been made to fore go the usual communal atmosphere of the large hall, which would have sat unnaturally empty around them with all the pupils still confined to their rooms. Not that Dean was any happier about eating at Father Grouch's.

"What about you? Anything?"

Sam blinked, blowing out a breath and watching it curl out into the cold air before him. The tip of his nose was starting to go numb.

"Well," he sighed, "Sister Helena was certainly right about one thing, Father Gulla has quite a collection of black books."

Dean frowned,

"Black books? Like, demonology-black?"

"No Dean, _black books_, reading banned by the Vatican, only Father Gulla's got shelves of it."

The sentence drew a chuckle of dry amusement,

"I wonder why."

"He says it's to open his mind."

"Open a whole box of nasty more like," Dean muttered darkly, causing Sam to wince, venturing a hesitant suggestion that had been playing across his mind,

"You're sure it's him?"

Dean shrugged, not saying yes but not saying no either. Which, as Sam knew from experience, was pretty much as good as a yes anyway.

"Sister Helena said she saw Gulla talking to Father Miner about his posting in Chicago just before he died. Apparently the poor bastard keeps getting over-looked for promotion."

That made sense, as well as adding to what Sam had already found out that morning, although it took a second longer and a flicker of hesitation before he added his findings to his brother's, still feeling strangely disappointed that it was becoming more and more apparent that Gulla was their man. What a waste of such carefully-honed knowledge and sharp intelligence. What a waste, period.

"Father Kearney took the last place on the school's next trip to Israel too. Father Gulla wasn't even allowed to apply."

"Ouch."

"But that still doesn't explain why Father Bennett was killed," Sam added slowly, unable to stop the nagging sensation that something didn't quite fit. Dean meanwhile heaved an irritated sigh and threw up his hands in exasperation,

"Well I don't know Sam, perhaps he drank the last of the milk and put the container back empty! We're talking about a man who summons rock demons here. Where do you start?"

Sam paused, taking a long deep breath,

"I guess."

He sounded anything but convinced, although the fact he'd replied at all was enough for Dean.

"So let's just stick to the plan. When dinner's finished, we follow Father Gulla and see what he does, okay?" Nothing. He pushed harder, "Sam? Okay?"

"Okay."

Except apparently it wasn't.

Father Charles' lodgings were located on the far side of the grounds, set back into the perimeter walls and if Sam had been surprised by the size of Father Gulla's rooms earlier, then he was positively struck dumb by the quarters that greeted them as they corralled with the others. Dean however proved a lot more vocal on the subject, gazing around in disbelief at the elegant hallway as they stamped in across the threshold and out of the cold.

"Holy Mother of – ," he tailed off as a young man, clearly some of kind of senior student come lackey, stepped forward to take their coats. His voice dropped to a whisper as the rest of the teaching staff flooded in behind them, greeting one another warmly and talking in hushed whispers, "You know something Sam? The more I see of this place the more convinced I am that someone put us in the broom cupboard."

Sam just raised his brows wordlessly, offering a clueless shrug. _I think you might be right_.

"Gentlemen!" as a voice rang out across the foyer, everyone fell into obedient silence and turned towards Father Charles who had come to stand in one of the doorways, arms outstretched, "Thank you for coming this evening. I hope the alterations suit everyone as best they can, and I know we are all grieving the loss of yet another dear friend and colleague. But, that said, I know that Father Kearney, and Fathers Bennett and Miner would wish that we try to carry on as normal, and, in respect of those wishes, I have one or two announcements that I would wish to make later. But first, dinner. Please, be seated."

The command sounded more like something Father Charles might have dictated from the pulpit, but regardless of the tone, his staff set about complying, starting to shuffle politely forward into one of the rooms, where a full-length table sat proudly amid a room of portraits, crosses and carved wooden panelling, silverware sparkling under the light of a glass chandelier.

"All right," Dean muttered, bending in close to his brother, "Now I _know_ we've been had."

Sam snorted in amusement, his tone sarcastic but teasing,

"We'll take it up with reception tomorrow morning."

"Damn straight."

"Sam, Dean,"

Their conversation fell away abruptly as someone nearby called their names with enthusiasm, looking up to find Father Matthews pushing his way backwards through the sea of black garments. He waved at them, almost like a parent trying to grab the attention of a child mid-school nativity. Dean groaned audibly and Sam's false smile doubled instantly in compensation.

"Father Matthews," he greeted as warmly as he could manage, "How are you?"

"Quite well, quite well," came the double reply as the smaller man fell into step alongside them as they joined the queue around the table, everyone slotting one by one in spare chairs until the entire gathering was seated, Father Charles sitting grandly at the head.

"Have you heard the news?" Matthews asked them, bending in low across the table-top so as not to be overheard. They leant in despite themselves.

"About Kearney?" Sam replied, mentally kicking himself for forgetting the 'Father' and sounding entirely too policeman-like for a Catholic school. He positively felt Dean's momentary frown on him, but luckily Matthews neither heard nor cared.

"About the promotions," he hissed back, "Father Charles is going to be announcing who he is recommending to the Bishop in place of dear Father Miner for the posting in Chicago,"

At the whispered sentence Dean and Sam shared a sudden look, both eyes drifting semi-casually to find out Father Gulla, who sat stiffly across the table several seats down, looking tense and nervous. No wonder. All his hopes and dreams hung on the next hour before them, and the life of whoever _was_picked hung on the way the hunters took Gulla down if he proved to have failed again.

If Saint Gregory's was trying to restore normality then stopping with all the promoting, foreign travel and favouritism was probably a pretty good place to start. Unfortunately however, no one had mentioned that to Father Charles.

"When are the announcements made?" asked Sam, as bowls of soup began to pass around the table accompanied by mutters of, _careful it's hot_ and _there's bread in the middle_.

"After dessert," Matthews whispered back, his excitement almost schoolboy-like which was hardly surprising given that Catholic schools were not usually known for their sense of adventure.

"Who's looking favourite for it?" asked Dean gruffly, complete ignorance on the subject forcing him into reluctantly asking for a tip. Matthews paused thoughtfully,

"Well, there are a great many who would value such a posting, myself included, but there are some who've been waiting a lot longer than others."

"Father Gulla."

"Yes, naturally."

Dean sat back with a nod, suspicions well and truly confirmed. _Naturally_. He chose to ignore Sam's distinctly uneasy sigh.

The soup was good, well, it was hot and wet anyway, and it certainly succeeded in chasing away the last shivers of cold that had set in on the walk across the grounds. It was followed by a simple chicken dish as a main, and finally by a surprisingly children's party-worthy helping of jello that actually made Dean's face light up like a lantern. For a second Sam thought he might even do the medicine trick but fortunately they were spared that by what must have been a sudden attack of maturity.

Pudding over, the mood around the table began to pick up excitedly, all eyes flickering constantly towards Father Charles, waiting for a change in demeanour, a grab for some papers or a move for his glasses. He did all three not two minutes later, and, without prompting, everybody hushed as one.

Sam and Dean shared a look. This was their moment to find out the next victim.

"Fathers," Charles began, fingers tracing across a piece of paper lying open before him on the table, "As we all know, it was to sad circumstances we lost Father Miner…" he paused to cross himself and watched as everybody else followed suit, "…a valuable and trusted friend before whom spread a life of such richness and promise that had included a recent commission to the Church of Saint Mary's in Chicago. Naturally, myself and the Bishop felt his greatest wish would be to pass that commission on to one of his friends at Saint Gregory's…"

Dean snorted softly,

"Surely his greatest wish would be to not get pounded into the floor of the Chapel."

Sam frowned and ignored him, trying to focus on Father Charles.

"…and with that in mind, I would like to announce who I have put forward as my personal candidate for the job. Fathers, please put your hands together for Father Cornell."

At once a round of applause broke out, along with mutters and cries of congratulations. Beside Sam, Father Matthews visibly deflated and Sam debated putting a comforting arm around him. Still, Matthews was young – compared to a lot of them – he would get his chance. Father Gulla meanwhile…he looked crushed. Pulling off his glasses with one hand and rubbing his brow firmly with the other.

"Now, I'm afraid I am going to have to leave you to your own devices," Father Charles nodded, speaking up over the wave of excitement prompted by the promotion, "Please stay and have coffee, but I am needed for choir practise."

Which, apparently, despite the murders, was still Father Charles' main priority. Weird, although maybe not so much, Sam considered, as he took in the choir trophies adorning the mantelpiece above the fire. Beside him Dean was already moving, watching as Gulla stood up with the sea of moving Priests, heading not for the sitting room but instead the front door.

"Come on," he whispered, eyes glued to the back of their deflated looking suspect. Sam followed instantly, watching as Gulla stepped out into the darkness and away.

They didn't get much further however before a figure stepped in front of them, blocking their path and glaring at Dean with a deeply unnerving smirk.

"Dan," Father Charles clipped briskly, no doubt in response to the younger man's earlier use of _Chas._ Dean didn't even flinch, "I was wondering, since we missed your big performance at Matins this morning, if you wouldn't like to help with choir practise tonight."

The implications were clear. _If you can. Phony_. Dean offered one of his brightest smiles, eyes flicking constantly over the clergyman's shoulder at the point where Gulla had disappeared.

"Err…thanks but no thanks. I've got somewhere else to be."

"Oh come now," Father Charles grinned unnaturally widely, "I insist."

For a second everyone stood in silence before Sam, sensing neither man was going to give in, cleared his throat and smiled.

"Dean would love to, wouldn't you?" he nudged his brother gently, knowing the move would earn a whole lot of bellyaching later. Dean grinned nervously,

"Yeah. Sure."

"Good," Father Charles smiled, "I'll have Timmins collect your coat."

The second he'd moved off, Dean turned to Sam furiously, steam practically pouring from his ears.

"Dude! What the hell? We're supposed to be going after Gulla and you're packing me off carolling?"

"Dean," Sam hissed, catching his brother's sleeve and drawing him away from the comfortable atmosphere of the lounge, "We can't risk Father Charles catching us out. I'll follow Gulla and see what he does."

"No," Dean's tone was firm, "This thing has already pounded three people into the ground Sam. You're not going after him, not without back-up."

"I won't make a move until you get there okay?"

As Father Charles appeared in the background behind them, clutching Dean's coat with a smirk, the oldest Winchester sighed, realising he had very little option.

"Fine," he growled, "But you'd better not."

And with that he watched his younger brother throw him a final nod and then duck out of the door, leaving him alone with Father Charles, who was still brandishing his coat, clutching it firmly by the neck and probably wishing he could do the same to it's owner. Dean took it with a false smile. _Great. Let the fun begin._

By the time they'd crossed the grounds – in awkward silence the both of them – and made it to the Chapel, a little gaggle of young boys was already waiting to greet them, standing shivering in the cold escorted by two senior students who turned to leave as soon as Father Charles had let them all inside out of the elements. Dean vaguely recognised two or three of the boys from his and Sam's dorm, although the crying nightmare-boy was nowhere to be seen. Small mercies and all that.

Taking a seat away from the action, Dean watched as everyone readied themselves, taking off coats and gloves, ordering themselves by what looked like height into three little lines before taking out their hymn sheets and letting Father Charles position himself in front of them, hands hanging in the air, waiting for the moment to cue them in.

Everyone seemed to know what they were supposed to be singing without the need for a prompt, and as Father Charles swept his hand through the air, beginning to conduct them with a variety of descriptive gestures – none of them rude and so therefore largely alien to Dean – the high-pitched but surprisingly haunting tune began to drift up into the rafters, echoing off the walls and bouncing the melody back at them.

For once in his life, not even Dean could conjure up a put-down, and simply sat through the performance. For a bunch of kids, they were pretty good. Especially the one on the drums.

He frowned, suddenly confused.

_Drums? What drums?_

Sitting up straighter in the pew, Dean focused his attention on the solid thumping noise that punctuated the gentle tune, faint but no less apparent. Steady, constant and heavy. He didn't even register when the choir finished their song with a flourish, not realising they'd stopped until Father Charles turned to him with the ever-present smirk firmly in place.

"Well Dean," he smiled-thinly, "What do you – ,"

"Sssh!"

The sudden command made the senior clergyman frown, and he stepped towards the trainee priest in outrage.

"Now look – ,"

"Sssh!" Dean's hiss was more insistent the second time, and just as his anger reached boiling point Father Charles became aware of the sound of banging somewhere near. He faltered uncertainly,

"What – what's that?"

Dean didn't answer but as the noise suddenly began to grow louder the glass in the windows started to rattle and there was the unmistakable tremble of ground underneath their feet. Abruptly Dean's face twisted into an expression half-horrified, half-monumentally pissed.

"Oh you gotta be kidding me."

"What?"

But there was no time for a reply because at that moment that Chapel doors burst in off their hinges in an explosion of thick wood, the sound echoing in like a bomb around the airy space and sending debris scattering across the pews like raindrops.

No one was kidding him this time, because there in front of him – and a hell of a lot bigger than even he'd imagined – stood Rocky the rock monster. Angry, roaring and very definitely built from head to toe in the kind of thick blocks of sandstone that made light work of solid oak doors.

In that moment two things suddenly became very clear to Dean. One, the gun was going to be useless, and two…

…well, two, he was screwed – and not for the first time either.

Virgin Mary statuette be damned, there were no other words for it.

"Son of a bitch!"

* * *

And let the chaos begin!

Keep those reviews coming – I've asked Santa for them and everything!

P.S. I don't know if anyone else did the medicine thing with jello (jelly) but we all did when I was a kid. It is pretty disgusting though, so I don't blame you if you didn't!


	12. Let There Be Light

And here comes the big reveal…(Hope it surprises people! I did only leave a very few clues!)

Oh, and the jello medicine thing? It involves turning it back into liquid and then pretending it's medicine! A bit like spitting out your drink and then drinking it all over again...don't judge me, I was just a child!

* * *

**Let There Be Light.**

Gulla, as Sam had suspected, headed straight back to his rooms after dinner. Head-down, step hurried, pace determined. He couldn't have stood out more if he'd been doing the bad-guy tip-toe walk from Scooby-Doo, but then, he had just lost out on his dream job, perhaps it was genuine upset? Sam frowned, hardening himself in mental admonishment. _No, don't make excuses for him. Don't go there_.

He kept his back to the wall as he followed, listening to Gulla's footsteps up ahead of him, keeping his breathing soft through waves of adrenaline, appreciating the depth of the shadows. Obviously since the students were all in lock-down, Father Charles had taken the opportunity to save a little on electricity and plunge the surroundings into relative darkness. Great. Just what you wanted with a vengeful Priest and an unknown monster on the loose.

As Father Gulla let himself into his chamber with a creak of the door, a flood of warm light spilt out onto the flagstones, bright against the gloom. He left the door open, luckily before disappearing into his adjoining bedroom. Dean was right, they had totally drawn the accommodation short-straw. Still it gave Sam a chance to sneak in unnoticed and position himself behind one of Gulla's many tall free-standing bookcases.

He could hear the man moving around, sniffing and apparently composing himself. He also heard the chink of glass and when the Priest reappeared he was minus his collar and clutching a bottle of whiskey and an empty tumbler, both of which he almost dropped as he fell back heavily into an upholstered chair.

He looked pretty broken, running a hand across his haggard face, eyes moist behind wide glasses, his whole body slumped and defeated. Sam felt almost sorry for him. Almost, because at that moment, Gulla reached down and pulled an old leather-bound book from under the chair, opening it out onto his lap and running his fingers over the text. Slowly, and as Sam's heart began to pound in anticipation, he began reciting, rhythmically, shutting his eyes as his body began to rock gently backwards and forwards.

He was summoning the creature. Sam had to act, albeit with a silent apology. _Sorry Dean_.

"Hey!"

As he bolted abruptly from his hiding place, Gulla jumped half-a-foot from his chair, whiskey slopping over the side of the glass and splattering down onto the pages before him. As Sam came to an uneasy stand-still before him, expression murderous and body tensed for action, Father Gulla began to scrub frantically at the pages, blinking up at the new arrival in total bewilderment.

"Sam?" he asked quizzically, still half-concentrating on mopping up the mess, "What in Heavens' name are you doing here? Why are you shouting? What's happening?"

He sounded so genuinely confused that for the briefest moment Sam faltered, a flicker of doubt passing over him before his resolve strengthened again.

"I know what you're doing," he replied instead, firmly. Gulla blinked,

"I'm sorry?"

"With the…" whatever it was, "…rock monster. Father Bennett, Father Miner, Father Kearney, Father Cornell – ,"

Gulla sat up, suddenly alarmed,

"Something has happened to Father Cornell?"

"Well…" Sam paused uncertainly, growing steadily aware that there was some sort of crossing of wires going on, "…not yet."

Gulla blinked again, the rest of the sentence catching up with him.

"Did you say _rock monster_?"

As the Priest's confusion started to grow, Sam stepped decisively forward, taking the book lying open on the Father's lap and turning it over to the front cover. _Latin Verse and Prayers _stared back at him. Whatever else he was up to, Gulla was certainly not summoning a demonic creature. _Crap_.

"Sam? What's going on?"

He couldn't respond, he couldn't get his brain to work. If it wasn't Father Gulla controlling the thing then who was it? Who had they missed? There was bound to be another attack that night in wake of the promotions and suddenly they were back at square one and unable to prevent it.

"Sam?"

"But…the job," the hunter stammered back at the older man, watching brows crease in confusion, "…the posting in Chicago. You've been after a commission for years and – ,"

Abruptly Father Gulla laughed, his amusement dry rather than genuine,

"Ah yes," he sighed, "That. Well, if the Lord determines that Chicago is not where I am to spend my days then I must listen. What would you like me to say? That I'm disappointed? Well, naturally I am. But so are others. Father Hall has been pushing for a change these last six months, and then there's poor Father Matthews…"

Sam's breath caught in his throat,

"Wait. Father Matthews? Father Matthews wanted the Chicago job?"

"Well," Gulla shrugged, suddenly looking uncomfortable, like he might have betrayed a confidence, "I believe he wrote to the Bishop about it. All to no avail of course."

As the little wheels started turning in Sam's head, he began to get excited, pieces of the puzzle starting to slowly slot into place.

"Did he apply for anything else?" he asked, almost breathless with urgency. Gulla frowned in thought,

"The Israel trip, same as myself…"

"The same one as Father Kearney?"

"Yes."

"And the visit to the Vatican? What about that?"

"I believe so."

"Damn it!" They'd got the wrong person, they'd got completely the wrong person. Although that still didn't answer what he was summoning or how on earth he was summoning it. Father Gulla however was still mulling the subject over.

"I think I lent him a book actually…here," pushing himself from his chair the older Priest moved across to one of the bookshelves, fingers playing across a gap in the bindings, "Yes, that's right. I lent him a book on Jewish folklore when it looked like he was still in with a chance for the place. He was very interested in it you know."

"Jewish folklore?"

There went another piece of the puzzle. Slotting in beside all the others. Jewish folklore.

"Yes. He was most interested in the models, in fact he…" as Father Gulla paused mid-sentence Sam turned to face him, watching as the Priest took in his shelf of model figurines with a frown.

"What is it?"

"Well…one's missing. That's most peculiar, I can't think where – ,"

"Which one?"

"What?"

Sam tried hard to keep his anger in check, punctuating his sentence carefully and somewhat deadly.

"Which. One."

Gulla turned back to look,

"One of the figurines Father Matthews and I made with the children. We were creating our own Jewish servants like the ones I collected from Israel. We made it out of one of the blocks when they were doing restoration-work on the foundations."

"You made one out of sandstone?"

"Yes."

There it went, the final piece, and suddenly Sam knew exactly what they were dealing with. Not bothering to fill in Father Gulla, he suddenly turned on his heel and began stalking down the corridor, out of the room and away.

"Sam? Sam? Wait! What's going on?"

But Sam didn't pause, he couldn't. He had other things to be doing. For a start he had to find Dean, and then they had to find Father Matthews.

They were ending it. Now.

* * *

Okay, so maybe I made it vaguely impossible to tell who was doing the summoning, but I hope it kept the mystery alive at least.

Now we can move on to the action!


	13. Sacrificial Lambs

**Sacrificial Lambs.**

"Go!" the command was barked even as Dean was pulling the gun from the band of his jeans, head half-turned in the direction of the stricken looking Priest, voice carrying authoritatively across the wave of screaming choir boys, "Get them out of here!"

"But – but – but – ,"

"Now!"

He could hardly blame the old man for being a little dazed – it was hardly every day choir practise got interrupted by twelve foot of angry rock formation after all – but, as uncanny as it was, Father Charles' best goldfish impression was helping no one.

"What – what is it?"

Despite himself, Dean managed an unamused laugh,

"I'll let you know. Now can you get everybody out or not?"

Swallowing, eyes still focusing wildly on the creature trying to bash a bigger hole in the entrance way, Father Charles managed the tiniest hint of a nod which Dean promptly took as a yes, unable to keep the growl of irritation from his voice,

"Well get going then!"

"What about you?"

Dean blinked, touched, or at least he would have been if they hadn't been in the middle of the biggest religious crisis since the crucifixion. Instead he wrapped his fingers tightly around the familiar grip of the semi-automatic, angled the barrel upwards and set his face in defiance,

"I've got it covered."

Except he hadn't.

Still, Father Charles didn't need to know that, especially since the answer seemed to do the trick of finally spurring him into action, slipping straight back into confident teacher-mode with a firmness that made even Dean arch his brows in surprise.

"Boys! With me! We'll take the passage to the Old Chapter House. Quickly! Stay together now!"

Perhaps the Padre wasn't so bad after all…

At the sound of scattering masonry, Dean launched himself backwards just in time to avoid a large part of the entrance that burst in under the weight of the beast and thudded solidly into the space where he had been standing seconds before, sending up fragments of floor tiling like a mosaic rainstorm. The last of the Chapel doors burst in with it, and as a heavy foot pounded into the airy space, Dean clambered back up into a crouch and for the first time took a good look at his opponent.

It did not make for comforting viewing.

The creature was huge, at least twice his size and, if it hadn't already been confirmed, made of very solid sandstone-looking rock. A small, stunted head jutted straight out of the bulky, craggy body, two beady, black little eyes staring around the room without a flicker of intelligence. A wide, gaping mouth hung underneath, dark like the entrance to a cave. Huge arms came straight out from the shoulders, swinging wildly from side-to-side as the thing tried to clear itself a path, carried in on two enormous legs that widened out further down like a pair of ridiculously over-sized bell-bottoms. Dean had been right earlier. It was the Thing from the Fantastic Four.

"Hey, Ben," he shouted, standing and angling the gun straight at the monsters' forehead "It's clobbering time."

The echo of the gun-shot was epic, bouncing around the vaulted ceilings so loudly that it sounded like the detonation of an atomic bomb, thudding into it's target with a solid thud and the splintering of rock, sending the beast staggering back with a roar of anger.

But that was all it did except piss it off some more, because as Dean stood watching the impact of the bullet, 'Ben' promptly bent, picked a full pew off the ground and flung it heavily in his direction.

Time to leave.

His pace quickly out-stripped that of the beast who, in addition to being none-too-bright was also struggling to prize his feet out of the flooring, each step burying him deep into the ground once more. Dean took off in the direction Father Charles had led the choir, trusting that the senior Priest's knowledge of the Chapel would direct him to relative safety until Sam caught up with him or he formulated some sort of plan. Preferably, both.

Sliding into the exterior room leading to the old Monks' Chapter House, Dean slammed the door shut behind him, trying to ignore the familiar thumping sound as he knocked the items off an upright table and dragged it into place across the threshold. It wasn't perfect, but it might hold off Benny-boy for a while. A very little while maybe. Still, it was a start. Letting out a deep breath he turned into the room and jumped as he came face to face with Father Charles and the terrified-looking choir.

"Son of a – ," he gathered himself just in time, "What are you doing here? I told you to take them out!"

"W – we can't."

"What? Why?"

"The passage, it's…" Beginning to stumble over his words in panic, Father Charles gestured frantically to a door in the opposite wall, silently instructing Dean to find out for himself. Tucking the gun back into the band of his jeans and heaving a sigh, the hunter stalked angrily past the children into the corridor beyond, stopping short for the second time in as many minutes as he came face to face with a pile of rubble.

_Son of a bitch, son of a bitch, son of a bitch._

The damn thing had blocked the exit, the _only_ exit remaining since the sacristy was out of action and the main entrance was a no-go zone. Dean bit back his growl of frustration. He had completely underestimated his quarry and now it had them trapped.

"Son of a bitch!"

He didn't even wince as the curse carried back up the passage into the room. Quite frankly, he and Father Charles had bigger things to worry about than a bit of cussing. Which brought him sharply to another point. Father Charles? The monster was after him now?

As the rocks began to tremble around him in a sure sign that Ben was working his way towards them, the senior Priest's shaky voice echoed down the corridor at him somewhat desperately,

"Err…Dean?"

Right. Plan B – whatever the hell that was.

"Get the kids into the passage," he commanded shortly, striding back into the room and beginning to cast around for weapons. What the hell did you use to kill something made of rock? A pneumatic drill?

Father Charles blinked, unsure as to his orders.

"The…passage? But the passage is blocked – ,"

"I know!" Dean hissed in response, rooting frantically through the drawers and shelves lining the room, "But this thing's got to come through me first, and when it does…" _When_? Surely he should have said _if_? "…there's another door beyond that. We've got to give him time."

"Who?"

"Sam."

"_Sam_?"

"Yeah, he'll come up with something."

Father Charles blinked again, as if not quite understanding.

"_Sam_ will come up with something?"

Rifling through a collection of silverware, looking for something a little more solid than a fork, Dean paused, looking up and realising for the first time that he and the clergyman were on different pages,

"He's the bookish one," he offered with a shrug, not feeling the need to explain further. If the Priest didn't get that he and Sam were not in training for ordination at this point then there was little hope for him, "Now get them into the passage and block the door from the inside!"

Again there was a flicker of concern,

"But you – ."

"I'll think of something."

"You said that last time,"

"I shot it didn't I?"

The footsteps were still pounding closer, ominously so, the building beginning to shake around them as Ben tried to rip his way through the narrower corridors. Father Charles snorted,

"Well it doesn't seem to have had a lot of effect!"

"Sure it did…" Dean fired back, eyes falling on the tall, golden alter cross lying on the floor amid the rubbish. It would have to do. Turning back to the Priest, he offered a roguish smile completely at odds with their situation, "…Now he's really pissed."

The humour did not prove catching, but the lull in conversation combined with the rattling of the windows under the heavy tread of Ben did at least convince Father Charles to do as asked and move the children into the relative safety of the passage-way, his teacher voice kicking in again.

"Right now boys, into the passage. Steady now, make room. As far back as you can go. That's it."

As Dean listened, half an ear on the evacuation the other half on the worsening rattle that gave away the monster's approach, his pocket suddenly started to vibrate and he dove a hand in to fish out his cell, practically shutting his eyes in relief at the name staring up at him on the screen.

"Sam. Talk to me, what's going on?"

"It's a golum."

His brother was firm and to the point, the familiar tone comforting none-the-less. Confusing too.

"It's what?"

"A golum Dean, from Jewish folklore. Models brought to life through enchantment to serve their creators. In this case one built from part of the schools foundations to take revenge."

Sandstone. Right. Made sense.

"Enchantment? Father Gulla?"

"Father Matthews."

"Father – ," _Oh come on_, "You're kidding me? Father Matthews? Father freakin' Matthews?"

Across the line Sam snorted dryly, the sound part-amusement, part-irony.

"Fraid so. He wrote to the Bishop about the Chicago job _and_he applied for both the trips. Father Gulla lent him a book on Jewish folklore."

"That little – ,"

"Look," No nonsense. To the point. Good old Sammy. "After this promotion thing he's going to want to go after Father Cornell. I'm heading to his room now, I need you to meet me there."

_Ah. Problem. _

"Err sorry Sammy, no can do."

A slight pause followed by a hint of confusion.

"What? Dean – ,"

"But I don't think you need to worry about Father Cornell."

"Why's that?"

"It's going after Father Charles instead."

"It – Father Charles?"

"It's trying to get into the Chapter House ,"

"Huh?" Suddenly his younger brother's voice became hesitant, "How do you know that?"

"Because that's where we are,"

"What!" He knew that tone of panic, it was the same one Sam used whenever he was worried about his brother's safety or state of mind. He could hear the breathing grow a little more ragged over the line as Sam inevitably moved from a brisk walk to a sprint. Brain gone straight into amber-alert. "Hold on okay? I'll think of something."

Somewhere overhead there was a puff of dust as the stones in the building shifted visibly, followed by the crash of rubble from outside the door and a shake as the table he'd dragged in the way started to tremble violently.

Ben had arrived.

"Hold on okay Dean?" Sam's tone was desperate, "Hold on."

"Not a lot else to do Sam."

And there wasn't…except maybe, try not to die.

So far so good.

* * *

A little something for Christmas Eve there!

I won't post for a couple of days for obvious reasons – mainly because after everything I plan on eating it'll take at least a day to drag myself up the stairs on my elbows!

Anyway, I hope everyone has a wonderful Christmas if that is your chosen holiday and just a good day if not! Happy Holidays folks!

P.S. Anyone who guessed it was a golum wins the prize…or at least they would if I had one!


	14. Lambs to the Slaughter

**Lambs to the Slaughter.**

The alter cross was still lying at his feet, solid gold staring up at him from the dusty floor like a beacon of hope. He scooped it up quickly, brandishing it club-like at the door and listening as the golum began to pound at the doorway, roaring like something out of Jurassic Park. _Figures_.

Wrapping his fingers closer around the base, Dean shifted his weight, feeling as the adrenaline began to pump around his veins, coursing through every part of him. He was ready.

"Come on you unholy son of a bitch," he hissed, "_Come on_."

"What's the plan?"

As Father Charles' sudden hushed whisper floated past his ear, Dean jumped in surprise, whirling around with the alter cross brandished in his hands to find the Priest standing just inches away from him, looking wide-eyed and breathless.

"What the hell – I thought I told you to get into the passage!"

Was the man _trying_ to give him a heart attack? Father Charles just blinked in response,

"No," he replied after a pause, unable to keep the haughtiness from his tone, "You told me to get the _children_ into the passage. Which I did."

"So go join them,"

As the door trembled viciously under the weight of a sudden blow, Dean grit his teeth, trying to keep his temper. _Of all the times to be a have-a-go hero…_

Despite flinching every time the door banged, Father Charles still managed to draw himself tall with indignity,

"I want to help."

The retort was scathing, dripping with patented Dean Winchester sarcasm,

"Great, got a case of dynamite stashed under your cassock?"

"Now look here, these boys are my responsibility! If I can do anything, _anything_ to protect them then I will," and there it was again, the strength of character he'd underestimated, "Just tell me what to do."

Dean took a deep breath, not liking what he was going to have to explain next and strangely wishing that he had been able to keep the truth from the Priest at least a little longer,

"Stay behind me and the kids will be fine."

Father Charles frowned,

"And you know that _how_?"

"Because – ," there was going to be no sugar-coating this one, "Because it's not after them."

"Oh?" It came out as an angry demand for explanation, but as Dean continued to gaze at the Priest before him the implications slowly set in and for the first time Father Charles realised what was truly at stake. It wasn't a pretty revelation, "Oh, I see. It's – it's after me isn't it?"

He sounded calm, matter-of-fact even, but Dean could see from the shine in his eyes that he was on the verge of breaking. The sight made Dean's resolve strengthen again and he set his face in determination, turning back to the door and raising the alter cross.

"Not if I've got a say in it."

Behind him Father Charles smiled, a hint of amusement creeping into his tone despite the situation as he nodded towards the object clutched in the hunter's hands.

"That's church property you know."

Dean grinned back,

"Just this once I think the big guy might understand."

"Agreed."

As the ceasefire between Dean and Father Charles reached new levels of understanding, the pounding that had been shaking the walls promptly picked up a pace and the table Dean had hoped would bear some of the brunt abruptly exploded across the room, forced clean off its feet by the power of the door blasting in off its hinges towards them.

It was as Ben stuck his gigantic head in through the gap however that Dean realised just how useless the alter cross was really going to be. If a bullet was no good, what use was flimsy metal going to be? Still, he had a front to maintain and Father Charles was counting on him to at least pretend he knew what he was doing, he could give him that at least.

Shifting his weight onto his back leg, Dean burst across the room at a run, watching as Ben struggled to force himself through the narrow doorway, limbs concentrating on breaking apart the walls in his way. It was about the only chance Dean was going to get. Ducking in low, he let out a growl of anger, using it to gather all the force he could into his arms as he drove the alter cross forward into the golum's middle, sliding it between two of the stacked blocks making up it's torso and producing a satisfying roar of pain for his troubles.

It didn't incapacitate Ben for long however, and Dean only just managed to duck in time as a giant hand swung in through the wall with the aim of knocking off his head, sending a cloud of rubble and dust spilling into the room like a sandstorm.

Dean coughed, rolling backwards and finding his feet while pulling the gun free from his waistband once more. The golum was still sporting a fracture line from the gunshot earlier, and the golden cross was still protruded from its middle. Perhaps the beast wasn't as impenetrable as he'd first thought, even if his next plan was going to pretty much make or break their chances.

"Cover your ears!" he shouted back into the room as he pointed the weapon up, aiming it squarely at the point where the creature's arm joined its body and pulling the trigger, quickly and sharply.

_Bang – bang – bang – bang – bang – bang – bang – click – _

The sound of the empty chamber co-incided with a roar of pain, and as the gunshots continued to echo in off the walls they turned to stare at the golum, thrashing about in the doorway with a new source of discontent.

It's shoulder was cracked, fragmenting and crumbling, and as he staggered forward through the narrow doorway catching it on the stone-work arch, the limb broke into a thousand pieces and dropped to the ground, exploding across the floor like a china vase.

Dean couldn't hold back his grin of elation. _Now_ they were getting somewhere.

"Ha, ha! Check it out Chas, good old Ben here's a floor short of a skyscraper!"

Father Charles however seemed to sense the bigger problem.

"Have you got any more bullets?"

"Sure," Dean shrugged, dropping his voice slightly in hesitant admittance, "Back in our room."

Swiftly, Father Charles began to cross himself, mumbling something in Latin and shutting his eyes in silent prayer. Dean rolled his eyes, _great_.

The sudden shower of rock work caught them both by surprise as the golum burst in through the last of the doorway, his mission suddenly resumed albeit minus an arm. As a heavy piece of stone struck Dean hard on the back, he staggered forward, toppling so heavily onto the ground that it drove the wind clean out of him, his back alive with the fire of sudden pain. He coughed breathlessly, forcing air back into his lungs despite the protest.

Ben was moving towards Father Charles, watching the Priest back up helplessly as the bell-bottomed feet stamped towards him with shattering force into the flooring, it's one remaining arm outstretched, stubby fingers curled into a claw.

As Charles' Latin praying picked up a notch in desperation, Dean rolled onto his side, trying to ignore the pain in his body and the new desperation of events. As he absently shook the dust from his jacket, a silent prayer of his own escaped his lips, mumbled and said through a wince but still very much a plea,

"Come _on_ Sam!"

* * *

Well there you go, a little something short to get back into the swing with!

I hope everyone had a lovely Christmas – and didn't eat as much chocolate as I did/will/still am!


	15. Hatred Stirreth Up Strifes

**Hatred Stirreth Up Strifes.**

"Matthews!"

Sam hit the door at a run, slamming shoulder-first into the wood and busting off the catch on the other side. It flung inwards hard, whipping against the wall with a crash. Across the other side of the room a single flickering candle illuminated the solitary figure inside.

Father Matthews was crouched beside his bed, hands together in prayer and judging from the startled expression on his face, he had not been expecting visitors.

Sam didn't hang around to exchange pleasantries and as he strode across the room breathing heavily through his anger, the smaller Priest suddenly sensed the danger and started to back up.

"Now…now hold on a minute, I – ,"

Grabbing him by the neck of his shirt, Sam lifted Matthews bodily off the floor and pushed him backwards into the wall, hard. His expression left no room for negotiation,

"Call it off. Now."

As the pressure began to build around his throat, Father Matthews began to panic,

"But…I – I can't…you don't…"

"Now!" the yell echoed loudly around the room as Sam gave in to his anger, almost adding a very Dean-like _damn it_ of frustration before managing to stop himself. When he spoke again his voice was eerily quiet, "If you don't call this thing off right now, then so help me God – ,"

He broke off suddenly as a loud crash echoed around the grounds, a tumbling of stone like a building being demolished, the noise bursting in through the open window and capturing Sam's full attention. _Dean_.

Father Matthews took his chance, abruptly grabbing the candle and jabbing it upwards. Sam managed to turn just in time, dropping his hands away from the Priest and swinging to turn his shoulder into the attack. The flame extinguished the second it hit his shirt, fast and painless, but the hot wax was different, sticking fast and burning through to the skin before rapidly solidifying. But Sam had other problems because Matthews was heading for the door. Fast.

Diving forward, Sam kicked out at the Priest's desk chair, watching it skitter across the floor into the smaller man's path and tangle in his legs. Father Matthews went down with a thud and a groan, allowing Sam enough time to cross to the door and plant his hands firmly on the clergyman's shoulders, hauling him to his feet.

_Ding-ding. Round two._

"That thing is going to kill Father Charles!" he hissed, "_And_ Dean and the whole choir too! Is that what you want? Innocent blood on your hands?"

Although probably not so much innocent in Dean's case. Father Matthews squirmed awkwardly, his face a picture of displeasure and discomfort, his voice small and desperate.

"I just wanted to prove myself. Am I not worthy of a challenge? Do I not deserve a chance as well as anyone to shine?"

"So you kill Miner, Bennett and Kearney just to prove a point?" Sam asked, face crumpled in disgust, "How many more have to die Matthews?"

Tears began to well in the other man's eyes, a combination of defeat and Sam cutting off his blood supply leaving him exhausted.

"I'm a good Priest," he mumbled, "A good student, a good man – ,"

"Matthews," Sam tried again. He didn't have time for the soliloquy, "How do you call it off?"

"I don't know."

"You don't _know_?!"

The Priest gestured frantically towards a pile of literature stacked high on the desk, sheets of paper and scribblings scattered around them untidily,

"I got the idea from the book. I – it didn't – I mean I never had to – ,"

He tailed off uselessly and sensing the man's defeat Sam let him go, dropping him unceremoniously back onto the ground and listening to him stagger. He didn't have time for the man's ramblings anymore, he had to find a way to save Dean since knowing his brother like he did, the oldest Winchester had probably already found some way of pissing the thing off.

Crossing to the desk he began to leaf through notes and books quickly, eyes frantically scanning every title and discarding them just as quickly. _Where the hell was it? _So engrossed was he in looking that he barely heard Matthews clambering to shaky feet, his tone just a semi-octave away from crazy.

"I'm a good Priest," he muttered darkly, collecting up a silver letter opener and starting to edge forward, "The Lord knows. I am a good Priest,"

Back turned towards him, Sam continued to push through the mountain of books, silently cursing why everybody on the general staff at Saint Gregory's insisted on being such avid readers.

Matthews rose the letter opener high Sam noticing too late the danger in the reflection of the window and turning just as the makeshift knife plunged down. He flinched on instinct, his body tensing up, eyes squeezing shut and cursing at his own stupidity as he waited for the pain. Instead the only thing that greeted him was a solid thud, a groan and the sound of someone dropping to the floor.

Sam opened his eyes.

Father Matthews was lying on the ground beside him, out cold, the letter opener lying harmless on the stonework floor. It was the sight above the man that caught Sam's eye however. The shaking hands holding a large, old edition of the Bible, the long black robe that hung past them, the rosary and finally the framed, horrified looking face.

"Sister Helena?"

"Sam!" she breathed, both concerned and shocked by her own actions, "Goodness I thought…I thought he – ,"

Sam stood quickly, taking her hand in an attempt to comfort her,

"It's okay,"

Although, technically it wasn't and she knew it, peering down at the prone form as if she was seeing things.

"Was it him? Has Father Matthews been…doing all of this?"

Quickly, Sam turned back to the books on the desk, continuing the frantic search for the one that hopefully held the key.

"Yeah, he has."

"But…why?"

_Bingo!_ As a book on Jewish folklore came to the top of the pile, Sam resisted the urge to yell out loud in delight. _Finally_. Quickly he straightened up, turning and flicking through the pages, attention only mildly on the woman standing beside him,

"It's kind of a long story," he offered apologetically, watching her nod slowly.

"I see," A slight pause, "Where's Dean?"

Sam didn't answer, the question making his gut clench tight. Subconsciously his page-flicking sped up, eyes working over-time as they zig-zagged back and forth across the text, skim-reading for their lives until suddenly they screeched to a halt on the one word he'd been looking for.

Golum.

They were in business.

"Watch him," Sam commanded briskly, pointing to the unconscious Priest and turning to stalk from the room, digging frantically for his cell phone. He had no doubt that Sister Helena would rise to the challenge, seeing as she had to everything else, but that wasn't exactly his main concern. He had bigger problems. Much bigger and as he ran along the corridors out towards the quad, book in hand, he sent out a silent and desperate prayer.

_Hold on Dean. Hold on._

* * *

Now we're getting somewhere! Just two more after this and we'll be all done! It's easily the longest thing I've written on here – just goes to show what a month without work will do to boredom levels!

Glad Father Charles is turning people's opinions – I kinda like him too, all cassock and no sermon as the saying goes!

(It doesn't, I just made that up!)


	16. A Time to be Born and a Time to Die

Brace yourselves, this one's quite long!

**

* * *

**

**A Time to be Born and a Time to Die.**

Throughout the course of his life, Dean Winchester had done a lot of stupid things. Walked a veritable tightrope of sexual morality, all too often picked fist-fights with bad odds, dived into unknown surroundings after equally unknown usually undead beings and been far too flippant with things that had limited humour, but somehow jumping onto the back of a twelve-foot monster made entirely of sandstone as it loomed over a terrified Priest seemed to top them all. Particularly since the golum's first, and surprisingly quick reaction was to lean forward and flip Dean over the top onto the ground, jarring his already protesting back with another uncomfortable landing.

_Crap_.

Although in his defense the sudden assault had at least given Father Charles the chance to slide out of harm's way.

As a huge stone fist barrelled down towards his face, Dean rolled out of the way, his whole body being thrown involuntarily into the air as the beast's knuckles connected with the ground and sent out earthquake-worthy shock waves. He crawled onto his feet as it tried to pull its remaining arm free, delivering a solid kick to the limb before reeling away cursing.

_Made of stone. Idiot._

"Jes – ," he let the sentence hang in the air, catching Father Charles' disapproving stare from across the room despite all the chaos. _Un-freakin-believeable. _He grinned back sarcastically, "Don't thank me or anything."

"Dean!"

The golum was coming at him again, arm prized away from the floor, eyes now full of the annoying little man who had been consistently foiling his plans. He looked pissed and this time Dean could not avoid the swinging arm that whirled in his direction as the creature lurched forward with a vicious back-hander that deposited him again onto the floor, half-dazed. Then, just as abruptly it turned again, wheeling in the direction of Father Charles – the initial object of the evening's foray – and stretching out the clawed fingers once more. Father Charles swallowed, staggering backwards until he felt the cold bite of the wall behind him. Still the golum approached, it's fingers opening and closing in a pincer motion. This time the Priest's cry was more desperation than warning.

"Dean!"

Still sprawled on the floor, the hunter let loose a weary groan at the panicky use of his name, clapping a hand to his rattling head and trying to get his eyes to focus. Where was he again? What was happening? As he gazed up at the scene before him – clergyman pressed to the wall, a walking tonne of sandstone advancing towards him – he suddenly remembered. _Oh, right_.

Jumping to his feet and briefly staggering off-balance, Dean cast around the room for a weapon, lamenting the loss of the alter cross buried in the golum's middle and the generally woeful supply of tall metal objects. Taking a step back however, his foot collided with something heavy and he stumbled a little before steadying himself. _What the – perfect_. Lying at his feet was a long, solid brass candlestick holder, obviously dislodged from wherever the hell it had been by the golum's insistence on restructuring the place. He bent with a wince, sucking in a long breath as he heaved it up off the floor. God damn it was heavy. Still, with the golum's snapping fingers now only a pinch away from Father Charles' neck, he didn't have a lot of time to complain and with the sort of impulsiveness that sealed his character, he dove forward at the creature's back, candlestick pointing forward like a lance.

Or at least he tried to, because at the last moment the golum swung its arm backwards, sensing the attack and sweeping the candlestick from Dean's hands as easily as if it were a feather, sending the object crashing across the room and leaving him defenceless as once more the monster turned its attentions to him. This time it was getting rid of him one way or the other.

Ducking first one punch then another, Dean scrambled backwards, trying to formulate a plan of action with limited options and coming up empty. As the golum's fist swung again – colliding hard with a free-standing arch and creating yet another deluge of masonry – Dean felt a familiar sensation run through his right thigh and quickly reached into his pocket to pull free his phone. _Sam. Finally. _Although perhaps sensing that he wasn't in the best position to talk he instead called out loudly across the room,

"Chas! Heads up!"

As the Priest looked up in bewilderment just in time to see a phone spinning his way through the air, Dean grabbed hold of the alter cross protruding from Ben's stomach, and twisted it hard, pulling the creature's eyes away from their flying lifeline just as it looked like it might make a grab for it itself.

It worked, the golum lashing out angrily again and missing Dean's head by a hair's breadth whilst in the background Father Charles fumbled with the cell phone, first managing to somehow catch it in the confines of his sleeve before frantic searching finally located it, then hitching up his glasses to decipher which button allowed him to speak.

"Oh, come on!" Dean yelled in frustration, stumbling over an upturned chair and just managing to regain his feet as the golum's tree-stump foot stamped down hard where his ribs had been. Tentatively Father Charles rose the contraption to his ear, his tone as polite as if he were the receptionist at a general practitioners.

"Hello?"

A vague pause greeted him perforated by heavy breathing,

"…Dean?"

"It's Father Charles here,"

"Father Charles? Where's Dean?"

"He's…" as a half burnt candle came flying his way, part of Dean's new plan – throwing anything he could find at the creature close to cornering him – the clergyman paused uncertainly, taking a deep breath and choosing his words carefully, "He's here."

Dean looked up from across the room, his voice firm yet desperate as he continued to duck fearsome punches.

"Is that Sam?"

"Yes."

"Great. Tell me he knows how to kill this son of a bitch," he hissed, both men wincing as another missed blow connected with the wall, showering the hunter in sharp fragments of stone. Father Charles turned quickly back to the phone-section of the conversation,

"Do you know how to kill it?"

"Maybe," Sam replied, obviously sensing he was part of some three-way conversation and simply getting on with his role in it, "Does it have any writing on it's forehead?"

Father Charles frowned, the expression obvious even over the phone as his voice hitched mid-sentence,

"It's forehead?"

"Ask him!"

Jumping slightly at the barked command, Father Charles paused, gazing across the room towards the still-raging fight. It didn't seem to be going too well for Dean. Hesitantly he cleared his throat,

"What?" That was Dean, the heat of the situation getting to him as he snapped back at the Priest.

"Does – ," he felt a little stupid saying it, "Does it have any writing on it's head?"

"Writing?" Fortunately he wasn't the only one confused, "What kind of writing?"

"Hebrew," Sam replied across the line, either having heard or else preempted his brother's question. Father Charles dutifully passed the message along,

"Hebrew."

As the golum swung at Dean again, the force planting the hunter back into the wall and allowing the creature to step towards him, Dean took a long steady look at its forehead, the answer all too apparent.

"No!"

"No," Father Charles echoed back. Sam's tone didn't waver,

"Okay, then the enchantment will be written. Look inside it's mouth."

"It's – ,"

"Just do it!"

Rubbing a wearisome hand across his features, Father Charles gazed across the room again, his breath catching in his throat as he watched the golum pound a fist into Dean's stomach, bending him clean in half.

"He says check it's mouth for an enchantment!" he called, watching pained and disbelieving eyes roll incredulously in his direction. The Priest shrugged helplessly, pointing to the phone. _His idea_.

"Great."

As the golum stepped towards him, its outstretched hand pushing and pinning him hard against the wall, Dean rose his arms and began to apply pressure to the beast's top jaw, shutting his eyes and pressing his full strength against the top lip, a growl of frustration and exertion escaping him as he realised nothing was happening. Well, not with Ben's jawline anyway, it's arm however was a different story because as if suddenly tired of all the trouble, it wrapped stubby fingers tight around Dean's neck, forcing the air from his throat with one forceful squeeze.

"Oh my – ,"

As the severity of the situation hit breaking point, Father Charles fumbled with the phone, dropping it in his shock. Dean was going to die, he was going to die right there and then, his breath scratching in his throat, every gasp for air coming out as a frantic wheeze for oxygen, hands clawing uselessly at the sandstone arm.

"Father Charles? Dean?!"

He could hear Sam's desperate shouting across the line, but at that moment the clergyman had bigger problems to deal with. The only question was how exactly to deal with them.

Then he saw it. The brass candlestick lying abandoned on the floor under the window. Not enough to kill it, but maybe enough to stun it, divert its attentions. Either way it had to be worth a try and so silently, picking up his cassock as he went, Father Charles crossed the room and heaved it up off the floor, staggering a little under the weight and stifling a mental curse. It was not the Lord's fault after all.

As Dean continued to wheeze, the sound becoming more painful as the golum tightened its grip, Father Charles let out a very un-Priestly bellow, surging forward and bringing down the candlestick square across the monster's back.

It worked. Sort of. Because although the golum did not let go of Dean's neck, it did loosen it's grip ever so slightly and on top of that it threw back it's head and roared, exposing both the roof of his mouth and a piece of paper buried within it. _Hallelujah._ Using one hand to keep the golum's top jaw open, pushing up hard with the heel of his palm, Dean drove his other hand deep into the gaping hole, fingers closing around the enchantment and pulling hard, yanking it free of the fissure it had been slid into and bringing it out into the open.

Abruptly the mouth snapped shut again, nearly taking Dean's fingers off in the process as the golum belatedly realised something had happened, tightening it's grip all over again.

"Father!" Dean's call was a croak, squeezed out through a narrowing windpipe. Father Charles looked over at him helplessly.

"What can I do?"

"Help…" it was barely a whisper and Father Charles didn't know exactly what to do with it. Taking a deep breath however, he did the only thing he could think of, gripping the cross around his neck and shutting his eyes,

"The power of Christ compels you, the power of Christ – ,"

"No!" the painfully whispered hiss interrupted him sharply and suddenly Father Charles caught sight of the paper flapping in the hunter's hand, "Burn…it…"

With what remained of his strength, Dean flung the parchment towards him then raised both of his hands to try and force back the golum's fingers, tugging frantically at the tightening choke-hold. _Hurry up, hurry up._

Father Charles however was dithering, casting around helplessly with the paper clutched in one hand.

"I don't have a light!"

_Oh Mary Mother of…_

He was a dead man_._

Suddenly there was the sound of pounding footsteps down the corridor followed by the sight of someone skidding in across the broken wood and flooring, pausing in shock at the sight before him.

Sam.

_Thank God._

Taking a second to adjust to the scene the first thing Sam saw was Dean pressed against the wall, half-lifted off the ground with his legs swinging desperately below, the rock-hard grip of the golum around his throat. He was starting to change colour.

"Dean!"

The next thing he saw was Father Charles gazing from left to right about the room, something hanging in his hand. Sam didn't need to ask what it was to know, nor what the Priest was looking for and suddenly the youngest Winchester had it all under control.

Crossing the room in three short strides Sam ripped the parchment from the clergyman's hand, simultaneously pulling free the lighter he habitually kept in his back pocket and flicking it into life.

The paper seemed to take forever to catch light, the sound of Dean choking filling the room while they waited. Sam refused to look up, refused to see his brother so helpless.

_Come on, come on. _

The sight of the flames finally licking around the bottom starting to curl skywards up the paper was one of the most beautiful things Sam had ever seen, and as the text began to glow in the heat he chanced a look across the room, desperate to see the end of the thing that had been the cause of so much terror.

The golum seemed frozen in time, fingers still clamped around Dean's neck, but no longer moving, no longer heaving great growling breaths, no longer functioning. As he watched, lines began to appear across the creature's body, tracing from its bell-bottom feet right up to the tip of it's head, a bright orange light creeping out from somewhere inside like molten lava appearing in the cracks of a volcano.

Throwing back it's head in a final act of defiance, the golum let out a deep half-scream half-roar, the sound shaking the glass in the windows before Ben, succumbing to his inevitable fate, exploded outwards in a hail of rock and dust that filled the entire room and made Sam and Father Charles turn their faces away, bracing themselves against both the impact and cloud of debris.

Suddenly there was nothing but silence...

…and coughing, a rasping, desperate inhalation of air from somewhere down on the floor. Sam knew instantly what it was,

"Dean!"

Crossing the chaos as quickly as he could without breaking an ankle, Sam slid to a halt beside his brother, propped up against the wall, covered in dust and taking in big gulps of air like a neurotic smoker. Sam dropped hands onto his shoulders, pulling him forward and leaning in to rub gentle circles across his back,

"Easy," he soothed, "Easy."

"You…took…your damn time," Dean rasped, the sound more wheeze than voice, but definitely Dean none the less. It was hellishly comforting.

"Sorry about that, got a bit held up."

"You sure…pick your moments."

Sam laughed, he couldn't help himself. If there was any medical test he needed to perform to check that his brother was okay, then it was the Dean Winchester ever-present-humour test. Which thankfully, he'd just passed with full marks.

"Yeah," he grinned, "Sorry."

From down the corridor, footsteps began to hurry towards them, a trickle of voices flooding their way led by the welcoming and familiarly commanding tone of Sister Helena, shouting at assorted Priests and students to call the emergency services as she stomped along determinedly. Father Charles meanwhile had shaken himself from his stupor and picked his way over to the door leading to the Chapter House, banging on it firmly, teacher-voice back in business.

"Boys? You can come out now! It's safe!"

As Dean gripped on to his sleeve, Sam helped him to shift his position on the floor, propping his brother half-against his chest as Dean's breathing slowly started to calm down. He was going to have a hell of a bruise around his neck for the next few weeks but as long as that was all he had then Sam figured they'd been pretty lucky – except for maybe a few broken ribs thrown into the equation too. Still, lucky considering.

"Hey Sam?"

The sound of Dean's wheeze centred his attentions once more, and hand still gripping tight to a bundle of his brother's shirt, Sam gazed downwards with a slight frown of concern,

"Yeah?"

"Next time, _you're_ taking choir practise."

And as his older brother's eyes twinkled in dull amusement, Sam nodded slowly, resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he responded with long-suffering humour.

"You got it."

He could live with that.

* * *

R.I.P Golum 'Ben' : Chapter 1 – 16.

How was the action in that one? I hope it was a fitting climax to everything that went on before it!

Just a final summing up to go and then it's a wrap!


	17. Go In Peace

**Go In Peace.**

If Father Charles was still in any doubt about Sam and Dean's not being trainee priests, then watching the eldest Winchester load their arsenal into the back of the Impala certainly did the trick.

"Oh…my – ," he paused, clearing his throat and watching Dean's amused face tip towards his, "That's quite…I mean…well – ."

He left it at that suddenly figuring it best not to pry and fearing that any answer would only concern him more than the not knowing. _Silence is golden after all_.

Sam stood inside the grounds on the steps to the dusty old dormitory he and Dean had called home, Sister Helena by his side trying to take in as many of the details as she could. Both kept their voices low against the tide of students surging to class; normal service resumed.

Father Matthews had been picked up by the police some hours earlier, the fearsome nun having somehow managed to extract a written confession from him. No one asked how, her methodology something Father Charles was again willing to overlook.

The Chapel was off-limits due to 'sudden and unforeseen structural complications' – which were going to be a bitch to explain away to the insurance company, but undoubtedly more realistic than the truth. Pretty ironic really.

"So," began Sister Helena slowly, face creasing in confusion, "It was a…model?"

"A golum," Sam responded with a nod, "Which is why we couldn't find any trace of it after the attacks. It just kinda shrank back to its normal size again."

"I see," she sounded uncertain but Sam wasn't going to hold it against the her. It was a pretty daunting concept. A Catholic Priest enchanting a hand-built model to kill his fellow clergymen all over a lousy promotion. Sam frowned, suddenly wondering how much promotion would have meant to him if he'd been allowed to carry on into the real world. Would he have become as ruthlessly ladder-climbing as Father Matthews? After all, if a Priest could be driven to kill then surely anyone could. It was an interesting thought and for a second, very, very briefly, it made him glad he was in fact a hunter.

He was pulled from his thoughts by the sight of a familiar figure in his peripheral, able to sense Dean's approach no matter how deep in reverie he was. He looked up, watching his brother walk towards him with that cheerfully resigned _let's hit the road_ face he always wore at the end of a case. Thoughts instantly on the next. Father Charles was following alongside him, his usual look of irritation replaced instead with one of vague respect.

Following his gaze to take in the approaching pair, Sister Helena raised her voice a little,

"Well thank goodness you boys came when you did," she stated pointedly, looking straight at Father Charles and watching his eyes widen as he offered a hasty nod, clearing his throat awkwardly,

"Err…yes. Quite."

Dean smiled. The Padre really wasn't such a bad guy after all. A little prone to grumpiness perhaps and not so good with gratitude but pretty damn brave all the same. It reminded him of someone…couldn't quite think who though. Sam bit back a grin, reading the moment as clearly as if he were reading a book and watching Dean throw a cheeky smirk in the Priest's direction.

"Don't mention it Chas. We're here to help."

For once _'Chas'_ let the moniker pass. No doubt realising it was the last time he'd hear it and probably silently thanking the Lord for the very same fact. Instead he smiled thinly, tone a little clipped.

"Yes."

For a second everybody stood in silence before finally Sister Helena clapped her hands together, cutting through the uncomfortable pause with a bright expression,

"So, where are you boys headed next then?"

"Wherever the wind takes us," Dean responded cheerfully before halting and amending his sentence, "Or the women," he turned to throw a wink at Father Charles, "Seriously, you really – ,"

"Okay then!" Sam cut in abruptly, sweeping forward to grab Dean by an arm and haul him off the steps, "We should really get going."

His brother seemed clueless,

"Dude! What the hell – ,"

"_Language_," Sam hissed in response, forcing an embarrassed smile as a group of small schoolboys stopped and stared at them open-mouthed, books clutched to their chests as if they'd just been passed by something unholy – which, compared to them, Dean probably was.

Behind them on the steps Sister Helena smothered a laugh, watching as Father Charles' brows furrowed in annoyance,

"On to lessons boys!" he chided the little group crossly, "Quick now!"

As they passed out of the gates, Sam turned and offered a wave to Sister Helena, who held up a graceful hand in reply, gazing across at them fondly as they stepped back out into the world. They were good boys, just like their father – God rest his soul. She was proud of them and she was in no doubt that wherever he was, John Winchester was too. How could he not have been?

"She's all right Sam," Dean offered as the brothers rounded the corner, his tone vaguely affectionate.

"Sister Helena?" came the reply, amused, "All right for what? A nun?"

"You know, an old broad."

_Ah. Nice._

The Impala lay ahead of them beside the road, the gleaming black curves seeming almost unreal after the faux-Gothic grandeur of Saint Gregory's, a little piece of the almost-modern world in stark contrast to the rising curtain walls flanking their side. But it wasn't the sight of Dean's baby that caught their attention however, rather the uniform-clad schoolgirl sitting on the hood, legs crossed, peachy-skin running from the top of a pair of socks right the way up to the bottom of a very, very short skirt. They both stopped dead,

"Jenny?" Dean stammered, drawing a frown from Sam. How was Dean on first name terms with…wait_, Jenny_? That was Jenny? _Confessional Jenny_?

"Hey," she replied, going again for the ultra-effective sexy voice-drop, "I heard you were leaving."

Dean nodded, regaining his composure and stepping forward, offering her a hand in a silent but gentlemanly _get off my car_. She took it at once, sliding across the shine and purposefully making sure her skirt caught a little, hitching further up her thigh. Dean let out a tiny, involuntary groan, catching it in the back of his throat and turning it into a cough. Sam bit hard on his lip to keep from laughing.

"Yeah," Dean growled, desperately trying to keep his gaze face-level, "We are."

"Shame," she purred, leaning up and tracing an index finger across his jawline, "I had so much more to confess to you."

"I'll bet."

As a school bell rang from across the road, Jenny turned her head, letting out a suddenly-girlish sigh before regaining her temptress-façade and reaching out for Dean's hand. He let her do it mutely, watching as for the second time that week she pressed a fold of paper into his hand, curling his fingers back around it, deep eyes finding out his, voice a breathy whisper,

"Call me."

Then with that she turned and crossed back over the road, letting her hips sway more than necessary as she sashayed across the tarmac. Dean watched her go, mesmerized, barely registering Sam moving up to stand beside him,

"Dean?"

"I think I'm in love," he replied, awestruck. Sam snorted, partly-amused, partly-creeped out.

"Dude she's like, seventeen!"

A shrug, eyes still leg-bound,

"I can wait."

"What?!" Sam spluttered, finally unable to control the laughter, "You're kidding right?"

"No."

"Dean, you almost went postal last week in Wendy's when we had to wait _three minutes_ for fries."

A flicker of childlike annoyance rippled across Dean's face as Jenny offered one last look back over her shoulder and then disappeared into the building beyond. He turned to Sam, indignant.

"It's called _fast food_ Sam! Besides, this is different!"

"Ye-ah," his brother punctuated carefully, "This is sex we're talking about here. You? _Wait_?"

"You're right," came the reply after a beat, followed by a grin, "What was I thinking?"

Sam snorted in amusement, shaking his head as he crossed to the passenger side and opened the door. It was definitely time to get Dean away from Saint Gregory's, the place was starting to turn him almost pious. Well, not the lusting after a schoolgirl part, but the waiting. It was so un-Dean-like it was scary. Funny too though.

"So Sammy-boy," Dean sighed, climbing into the driver's seat and pausing briefly to run loving hands across the steering wheel. There was only one girl in his life, "Where to next?"

"Dean," Sam began evenly, casting an appraising eye over his brother and taking in the angry purple rings around his neck and the way he was gingerly cradling an arm over his hurting ribs, "You just went ten rounds with a sandstone giant. We're not doing anything for at least a week."

"What?"

"I'm serious!" came the reply, sounding very much like he was. Little brother or not, Sam was taking charge on this one. For once his word was law and he knew that deep down Dean would be grateful for the excuse to rest up, a fact proved by his lack of argument.

"Fine," he huffed, doing his best to sound irritated through waves of relief. Truthfully, he pretty much hurt all over and the thought of a comfortable – i.e. non-Catholic issue – bed was achingly appealing. Nodding once, he fired the Impala into life, involuntarily grinning at the growl. Beside him, Sam was buried in a countrywide motel map, eyes scanning their route.

"There's a place about an hour from here with a pool," he offered casually. Dean blinked,

"A pool?"

"Yeah," Sam looked up, smirking, "And a hot tub."

"Let's go."

"Without telling your future wife where we're headed?"

"Bite me Sam," he snapped, drawing a laugh. Sometimes Dean really was too easy to wind-up, but then of course, so was he and as they pulled away from the curb his older brother was already formulating his revenge.

He grinned over mischievously, watching as Sam stared out of the window. Oblivious.

It was going to be a good one.

All he needed to do before they arrived at the motel was find a service station that sold pink bikinis for six-foot giants and then make sure Sam was looking in the other direction.

The grin widened involuntarily.

_Sweet. _

* * *

And that's it! Done.

Thank you sooo soooo soooooo much to everyone who has followed this, and especially to the wonderful reviews that kept me writing and posting!

I've got a couple of other things coming up, a one-shot that I'll post tomorrow called 'The Ballad of Poor Slimer' (you'll have to read it if you want to know who Slimer is/was!) and then another story set in a zoo that I've just finished called 'Animal Instinct,' that should be up in a few! Honestly I don't know what's wrong with me at the moment, I'm just writing and writing!

Anyway, Happy New Year everyone! Best Wishes for 2010 and don't drink too much!

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
